


Tea and Sympathy

by Drogna



Category: Constantine (TV), DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: M/M, Rip Week 2019, RipFic, Teashop AU, The teashop TimeBlazer AU that no one asked for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2020-05-20 18:36:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 35,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19382443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drogna/pseuds/Drogna
Summary: John owns a teashop in a sleepy Cotswold town. It wasn't really planned, but he needed to get out of Liverpool. He's intrigued by his new regular customer: a man in a brown duster who may also be running from his past.The very British teashop AU love story that absolutely no one asked for.





	1. John

**Author's Note:**

> This is a coffee shop AU, but a more British version because small towns usually have tea shops rather than coffee shops (or at least they did until Costa and Starbucks started being everywhere). Little Duckford isn't a real place, but it's somewhere in the Cotswolds, near enough to Oxford that the tourist coaches visit it frequently.

“He’s in again,” said Zed, looking through the serving hatch at the single occupant of the table in the far corner.

John frowned, as he put away his lighter and cigarettes after his smoke break. It was becoming a pattern that you could set your watch by. Every day, without fail, the man in the long brown coat would come into the shop, order English Breakfast tea with milk and one sugar, and a scone with jam. There was usually some looking at the cakes before deciding against them. It was almost a ritual, and it had been happening for the last three weeks.

He would sit and read his book, which so far had always been the same book on something called the “Punic Wars”. It was a thick tome, so it was probably going to take him a while to get through. He even had a favourite table which he would sit at, assuming that no one had got there first. John was considering putting a “reserved” sign on it for the appropriate time every day, because it definitely upset him when the table wasn’t available.

“Who do you think he is?” asked his American waitress. “I mean, how many other people do we have who are his age in here on a weekday?”

John grabbed his apron from the back of the door and put it on, wrapping the ties around his middle and tying them in a knot at his waist at the front.

“Maybe you should just let the man drink his tea in peace and stop speculating,” said John, moving back towards the cooker. The lunchtime rush would be starting soon.

But Zed had a point. The rest of the small teashop was mostly full of elderly men and women who were part of a coach tour party that were here to toddle around the picturesque market town and castle ruins. There were another couple of tables where young mothers sat with their newly born offspring in pushchairs, other recently minted mothers or pregnant friends. Oh, and there was George, who wrote children’s books for a living and preferred to use the teashop as his office rather than work alone at home.

The man definitely stood out. He was not their usual clientele on a weekday morning. It was made even stranger because John thought he knew the type. The man had a slight limp and startled easily when there were loud noises. The table that the man picked, when he could get his favourite one, was the one in the far corner where he could sit with his back to the wall and easily see the door. John’s mate Gaz had been like that when he got back from Iraq, but he’d preferred to frequent pubs and drink pints of brown ale. John had known a few coppers back in Liverpool that had the same issues too, ones that had been involved in bad situations and only barely lived to tell the tale.

That was too close to things that John didn’t want to think about. He needed to distract himself with worrying about the lunch crowd and whether he could put off doing the accounts for another night. Nice normal things that did not involve Liverpool and everything that had happened there.

“Don’t you think he’s kind of interesting, though? And the mystery makes him just a little bit more attractive? I wonder what his story is,” said Zed.

“Table six needs clearing, love, and table four look like they’re ready for the bill,” replied John, with a nod in the general direction of the teashop.

Zed rolled her eyes. “Oh come on! I need something to keep my imagination occupied. What if he’s just won the lottery? Maybe he’s independently wealthy. He can’t work if he’s in here every morning reading.”

John gave her a look. “Then he picked a bloody boring place to buy his mansion.”

Zed just shook her head, as she grabbed her cleaning cloth and pushed on the door out of the kitchen.

“You’re just disappointed that you’re not the only man of mystery anymore,” said Zed, and she was gone.

He suspected that the last thing the man wanted was Zed speculating about his past and what had brought him here. After all, as Zed had just reminded him, John didn’t like it when people wanted to know what an ex-cop was doing running a teashop in a tourist hotspot in Oxfordshire. He had come here for a fresh start, not to have to keep regurgitating his former life over and over again.

Weirdly, Little Duckford seemed to be the kind of place that all sorts of people washed up in. John hadn’t ever intended to stay here but the teashop had been left to him by a maiden aunt. He’d planned to sell it, but after a massive argument with his sister about various things, he’d somehow decided to keep it going out of perversity. He knew that the argument hadn’t really been about the teashop; that was just the stand in for Cheryl’s ongoing campaign to get him to take better care of himself, but her supposed care was becoming oppressive and he didn’t need it or want it. Or at least that was what he told himself.

Meanwhile, Zed was an artist looking for a quiet place to draw and she’d needed a steady income to pay the rent. When John first met her, she’d been running tours to the ruins, and complaining about having to stand in the rain and recite the same script twenty times a day. John couldn’t run the teashop on his own and no one else seemed inclined to take a job with the strange blond man who smoked forty silkcut a day. Zed just wanted to work indoors for a few months, but months had become a year and here she was, still waiting tables and attending art class in Oxford in the evenings. He’d never thought to ask her what an American was doing in the Cotswolds to begin with, that was her business, although he knew that she didn’t get on with her parents.

Luckily, Zed was soon too busy clearing tables and taking orders to worry about their new regular. John checked over his shoulder and sure enough the lunch crowd was beginning to come in. He’d got everything ready to go, and Zed would bring him the orders.

He could see that the man had finished his tea and scone now. The usual routine was that he’d close his book, marking the page with a bookmark that he placed reverently in the pages, and then catch Zed’s eye to ask for the bill. John hadn’t started cooking yet, so today he grabbed the piece of paper with Zed’s scrawled handwriting on it and took it over.

“Anything else we can get for you?” he asked, even though he knew the answer.

“No, thank you,” replied the man. “Just the bill, please.”

John thought his accent sounded like London, maybe Eastend but it was perhaps a bit posh for that. He had nice green eyes and there was something of a hipster about him, probably that was the beard. The way he held himself screamed military though, the straight back, the alert eyes and well-shined shoes. John would have put money on it. He wasn’t going to tell Zed, but he did find himself just a little intrigued by what someone like this was doing in this sleepy little town.

John handed over the bill, and the man paid with cash. It was always cash, never a credit card, and he always left the standard 10% tip, even on days when Zed was run off her feet and slow to get to him. At the height of the summer John also employed Liv to help out, but she was away at University for the rest of the year, and there was often a bit of time when trade increased but Liv’s holiday hadn’t started yet and they just had to make do. If John wasn’t cooking then he’d wait and clean tables to give Zed a break, but usually he was in the kitchen.

John returned to the till to get the customer his change, and was on his way back to his table when there was a loud shriek from one of the tables of mothers and babies. It took John a moment to work out what was wrong. He saw a large puddle of liquid on the floor, so obviously, someone had knocked a drink over. Then he took in the panting, extremely pregnant woman and the dark, damp patch on her trousers.

“Oh, bollocks,” was out of his mouth before he could consider the small ears present. “Zed, love, call 999, we’re going to need an ambulance,” he shouted to his waitress.

Zed stared for a moment and then got moving, heading for the phone by the cash register. She was sensible, and quite capable of dealing with calling the emergency services. John headed over to the woman, his main concern that she probably didn’t want to have all these people staring at her while she was in the early throes of labour. The mystery-man customer stepped up beside him.

“Have you got a room that we could take her to?” he asked, calmly. He was glancing around at the other ogling customers, probably thinking the same thing as John.

“Yeah, the office is probably the best bet. Can you help me move her?” asked John.

The other man nodded, and John approached the woman. “Hi there, my name’s John and I’m the teashop owner. Zed’s calling the ambulance for you, but maybe you’d prefer to be somewhere a bit more private while you wait?”

The woman nodded, grimacing as another contraction hit.

“Please,” she said.

“What’s your name?”

“Kendra,” she said, and groaned in pain.

“Okay, Kendra, me and this other gentleman are going to help you up. I didn’t get your name, mate?” asked John.

“Oh, my name’s Rip, nice to meet you, Kendra,” said the customer, who now at least had a first name.

“Does one of your friends want to come too?” asked John.

One of the other women volunteered, leaving her own baby to be looked after by the rest of the group. Between them they helped Kendra into the small office at the back of the café and sat her down on the leather sofa that John had installed when he took over the business. John left them briefly to run upstairs to his flat above the shop, and he grabbed towels and a blanket, while he tried to remember everything that he knew about childbirth. It wasn’t much. They’d never trained him in that, and the main advice had been to call an ambulance which Zed was doing. That was something of a difficult proposition in a small rural market town where the roads were narrow and they were miles from the nearest hospital though.

He returned to the room to find Rip holding Kendra’s hand and coaching her in breathing through a contraction. It really sounded like he knew what he was doing.

“I don’t suppose you’re a doctor?” asked John, hopefully.

“No, but I did help to deliver my son,” said Rip. “I’m not exactly an expert though.”

“You’re doing better than me, mate,” replied John, who felt he was going to need a very stiff drink after this. “I’m guessing you’ve done this before…?” he asked Kendra’s friend.

“Actually, mine was a c-section,” said the friend, “I don’t remember much after the contractions started.”

Kendra let out an angry scream as another contraction hit, and Zed poked her head around the door.

“Ambulance will be here in twenty minutes,” said Zed, “there was an accident at Furnham and the traffic is terrible.”

“I’m not sure that we have twenty minutes,” said Rip, a worried look in his eyes. “I’ve been counting the time between contractions and they’re less than a minute apart.”

John was speechless for a minute, before he regained his calm.

“Zed, we’re going to need hot water. Rip, it looks like you’re in charge. You’re the only one with any experience of this,” said John.

Zed left to get the water, with a quick shout of okay.

Rip looked like a deer caught in the headlights for approximately two seconds and then he was all business again. That was just more evidence for John’s theory that he was military, trained to take charge in a crisis. John watched as Rip did exactly that. He got the blanket spread over the woman and then got her to take off her trousers underneath, and he instructed her friend on the best way of breathing through a contraction so that she could do what Rip had been doing earlier.

“Do you have anything antiseptic?” asked Rip.

“I guess the hand gel we use in the kitchen?” said John, rather uncertain if that would be of any help.

“Get it,” said Rip. The contractions were coming quickly now, and John had no idea that babies could be born this fast.

John nearly bumped into Zed on the way to get the hand gel.

“I’ve closed the shop for the day, but told the ladies with the babies that they can stay as long as they like and tea is on the house,” said Zed.

“Good lass,” said John. “When you’ve dropped that off, you’d best ask them if they’ve got something the baby can wear and maybe a nappy for the little tyke. Perhaps someone should call the new Dad too.”

“Yeah, I’ll have a chat with them,” said Zed, “and go look out for the ambulance. Hope it gets here soon!” and with that she dashed off again.

John dreaded the day that Zed started earning enough money from her art to throw in her job as a waitress. He was never quite sure what he’d do without her.

John located the hand gel. It was safe for use with food, so hopefully it would also be safe for use with babies. It was probably better than nothing anyway. He grabbed a pair of kitchen scissors too. They’d need something to cut the cord with, John knew that much at least.

He returned to the room to see that Rip had rolled up his shirt sleeves and was washing his hands, then the hand gel was used next. Everything was about as clean as they could make it, but the conditions still weren’t exactly ideal. He doubted his sofa was ever going to be quite the same again. Rip was helping Kendra push with the contractions, politely asking every time he needed to touch her for any reason and explaining what was happening. John was doing his best just not to get in the way, and hand Rip things when he asked for them. He didn’t really want to look too closely at exactly what was going on under the blanket.

It was only moments later that Rip declared, “Okay, I can see the head. Nearly there.”

After that things happened very quickly, and suddenly Rip was holding a rather squashed looking and angry baby in his hands that yelled loudly. The utter joy on his face was something to behold, but somehow it was tainted with a deep sadness as John handed him another towel to wrap the baby in. Kendra was crying, but they were happy tears, and her friend was congratulating her and telling her how well she’d done.

“John, cut the cord,” said Rip, and John had to pull himself back to reality to actually remember that he was the one holding the scissors. He snipped the cord where Rip indicated just as there was the sound of sirens in the distance.

“It’s a girl,” said Rip, handing the baby to its mother. “Congratulations. She seems to be perfect in every way.”

“Thank you,” said Kendra, taking her baby and looking at her with boundless love. “I couldn’t have done it without you all.”

“You did all the hard work, love,” replied John.

“What are you going to call her?” asked the friend.

Kendra smiled down at the baby. “We thought we had another few weeks, we hadn’t really decided on a name. I don’t think there’s a female version of Rip.”

Rip laughed and shook his head. “No, and that’s not my real name anyway. Rip is just what people call me. I was actually called Michael on my birth certificate.”

“Oh, I could call her Michaela, I like that,” she said, and glanced up to see if that was well received. “And maybe Joan as a middle name. Michaela Joan Saunders.”

John couldn’t help but grin a little, and Rip seemed to be happy too.

“Sounds like a good name to me,” said John.

Zed led the paramedics, who had finally arrived, into the room and Kendra and Michaela were loaded into the back of the ambulance to be taken to the hospital for their post-natal check-ups and just to make sure everything was as well as it seemed.

“Feel free to bring her back any time,” said John, as Kendra waved goodbye.

The rest of the mothers and babies had departed after the ambulance had left, so John was left standing in an empty teashop. He let out a relieved breath. Zed had washed the floors while everyone else had been busy, and done most of the clearing away. John didn’t really feel like opening up again for the remainder of their advertised hours. That had been quite enough for one day.

“Well, that was slightly more excitement than I’d banked on for this morning,” said Rip, who appeared, drying his hands on a towel and rolling down his sleeves.

“Yeah, it’s not normally like this around here,” said John. “Mostly this is a pretty quiet little town.”

“That is what I was told,” said Rip. “It seems we were both misinformed.”

John sized up the man in front of him. “I was just thinking that a drink might be in order after that. Fancy joining me? I could make us a couple of bacon butties for lunch too. On the house, of course.”

Rip hesitated, buttoning his cuffs, but finally he nodded.

“Why not? I don’t have anywhere else to be. Perhaps I should properly introduce myself,” he held out a hand to shake. “Rip Hunter.”

“John Constantine, proprietor of The Mill House teashop,” said John. “And that’s Zed Martin.”

Zed grinned, as she appeared with a bag full of towels to take to the laundry. Normally today wasn’t laundry day, and the bag would have usually contained tablecloths.

“Hi,” she replied. “I’ve cleaned up the office. You’d never know a baby was born back there.”

“Do you want to stay for a bacon butty and a drink?” asked John.

Zed looked at the two men and John wasn’t exactly certain what she was thinking, but she seemed to decide this wasn’t a party she wanted to join.

“Nah, but thanks for the offer. If I’m getting a half day then I might as well make the most of breaking the back of my commission work.”

“Okay, one time offer though,” said John.

Zed laughed at that. She and John often shared a couple of drinks after they closed up for the night.

“You two have fun without me,” she said, and the door fell shut behind her, the bell above it left forlornly jangling.

“Come on through,” said John, to Rip, indicating for him to follow him into the kitchen. “There’s no point standing on ceremony after we’ve just delivered a baby together. Admittedly more you than me, but you get the point.”

Rip nodded and followed, with a slightly amused look on his face.

“That accent isn’t from around here,” said Rip.

“No, mate. Liverpool, born and bred,” said John, getting out the bacon and putting it under the grill. “Neither’s yours.”

“London, mostly,” replied Rip, which was an answer guaranteed to prick John’s curiosity.

“Have a seat,” he said, with a wave towards the counter with stools that was where John and Zed usually ate their own lunch.

“Thank you,” said Rip. “I have to say that you don’t seem like the type to own a teashop.”

John took out a loaf of bread and cut off four slices. He put them under the grill with the bacon to lightly toast.

“It was left to me by my Aunt Edie, and I was fed up with Liverpool, so… here I am,” said John, which was not exactly a lie but it definitely didn’t really cover everything that had brought him to Little Duckford. “You’re a bit far from home yourself.”

“My mother retired here,” said Rip. “She owns the old cottage on Fenchurch Lane.”

“Nice place,” said John, as he moved to the cupboard and got out the spirit glasses and the bottle of good whiskey that he kept there. “You’re staying with her, then?”

Rip nodded and watched John pour him a glass of golden liquid, before pouring another for himself.

“Cheers,” said John.

“Cheers,” replied Rip.

They both sipped the whiskey, and Rip’s eyebrows raised.

“That’s rather pleasant,” he said.

“Yeah, I think we deserve the good stuff today,” said John. “So, how old is your son? The one you helped to bring into the world.”

He was halfway through removing the toasted bread and turning the bacon when he realised that the silence behind him indicated that he’d asked the wrong question. He turned around to see Rip staring down into his glass, suddenly tense.

“He was eight,” said Rip. “He died… last year, with my wife.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, mate,” said John, softly.

He noted that Rip hadn’t told him how, and in his experience people usually added that after the initial notification of death. If they didn’t then they probably didn’t want to give up that information at all. Rip hadn’t had very long to grieve if they’d only died the previous year, so it was probably still quite fresh and painful. John knew when to leave things well alone, and yet he felt a pang of disappointment that Rip had been married and he didn’t know what to do with that.

That did explain a few things. It made more sense now for Rip to be here on his own, visiting the teashop on a daily basis, probably because he was on leave from work and had nowhere else to be. Maybe he needed to get out of his mother’s house for a while too, or he just liked the walk from her house into the town. The cottage that he’d mentioned his mother owned was probably about fifteen minutes’ walk outside of Little Duckford.

John finished making the bacon sandwich and set it down in front of Rip. He picked up a rack of condiments and put those down on the countertop too. He’d had training in dealing with the recently bereaved, but it had been a while since he’d had to put it to use.

“Actually, today was good,” said Rip, taking a deep breath. “It’s good for me to remember that life goes on, and hopefully Michaela Joan will have a long and full life thanks to what we did today.”

John nodded. “Yeah, this was a good day. I don’t think we’ve ever had a baby born in the teashop, even in my aunt’s time.”

He bit into his bacon sandwich, just as Rip did the same. John made his bacon sarnies from bread that was made at a local bakery and with bacon from the pig farm down the road. In his opinion, it was simple stuff that made all the difference when it came to food. He wasn’t a chef, and he knew his limits, so he stuck to doing the easy stuff really well.

“This is delicious,” said Rip, after a couple of mouthfuls had been eaten in silence. “I should eat here more often.”

“I might as well give up now if I can’t get a bacon sarnie right,” said John.

“So, what did you do in Liverpool before you came here?” asked Rip.

John had hoped he wouldn’t ask that question, but now that he had he should probably answer him with at least a mostly honest answer.

“I was a copper,” said John. “Made it to Detective Sergeant before I’d had enough.” He sipped his whiskey. That was another factual truth that left out a lot of the detail.

“Ah, well that explains the calm head in a crisis,” said Rip.

“I suppose. Where did you get yours?”

“If I told you that then I’d have to kill you,” replied Rip, and he sounded deadly serious.

John laughed, because he really couldn’t mean it. “My sister’s bloke used to say that, and he worked at the passport processing centre in Cardiff.”

“Passports are a serious business,” said Rip, in a tone that made it clear he was half joking, but John probably wasn’t going to get any more real information out of him. Rip just took another sip of his whiskey, savouring the flavour.

“I suppose they are,” said John, and downed his own drink. He took another bite of his sandwich. “How long are you staying in the town?”

“I, er, I’m not sure,” replied Rip. “I have a few things to work out before I can go back to London, and it’s not exactly good memories there.”

John nodded. “ _That_ I can understand. Liverpool isn’t my favourite place either. I guess we both decided to get out a place that wasn’t doing us any good.”

“Indeed,” said Rip. “You seem to have landed on your feet though. Your café appears to be doing well.”

“Teashop,” corrected John. “In the best British tradition of teashops, and whilst you probably haven’t noticed because you order exactly the same thing every day, we serve twenty-five different varieties of tea, and six different coffee bean varieties. And appearances can be deceiving. The books barely balance most months, but I’m not really expecting to make millions.”

Rip glanced at John, with a slight frown. “But you’re busy almost every morning.”

“Yeah, and I can only charge so much for a pot of tea and a cake,” said John, with a shrug.

Rip looked like he was about to say something and then thought better of it. He took another bite of the sandwich instead. John realised that he actually liked this guy, with his appreciation of good bacon sandwiches and fine whiskey. Maybe Zed was right about men of mystery being attractive too, although he probably shouldn’t be thinking thoughts like that about a recent widower.

“Perhaps having a baby born in the shop will bring you some extra publicity,” said Rip, as he finished off the remains of his sandwich, and downed the last of his drink.

“I hadn’t thought of that. You might be right,” John said, and picked up the bottle of whiskey. “One more for the road?”

Rip looked a little longingly at the bottle. “Unfortunately, I really should get going. Mum will probably be wondering where I’ve got to. Search parties will be sent out if I delay much longer.”

John laughed at the joke. “And we wouldn’t want that. Thank you again for your assistance. God only knows what Zed and I would have done without you.”

“I’m sure that you’d have managed,” replied Rip. “Thank you for lunch and the whiskey. It was appreciated. No doubt I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Rip pulled on his long coat, and John showed him to the door.

“Yeah, I’ll get Zed to reserve your table for you. It’s the least I can do for a local hero,” said John.

“That really isn’t necessary,” replied Rip.

“It’s a reserved sign on a table, it’s not exactly a grand gesture. We’ll see you tomorrow,” said John.

With that Rip walked away down the road, his slight limp meaning he favoured his left side just a little. And John suddenly had a burning desire to find out who this man was and drink the rest of his good bottle of whiskey. He locked up the shop, grabbed his laptop from behind the counter and his whiskey from the kitchen. Then he headed upstairs to his flat, where he sat on the sofa, poured himself a large tumbler of whiskey and started googling his new acquaintance.

***

John awoke on his sofa the next morning with a burgeoning hangover and none the wiser about his new regular. His alarm on his clock in the bedroom was going off, which meant he should really get ready for work and take his pills. He had slept in his clothes after self-medicating himself into unconsciousness with several glasses of whiskey. He hadn’t done that for a while, but then the previous day had been unusually stressful. He felt around for his packet of ciggies, and found it on the table with his lighter.

He sparked up and took his first drag of the day with relish.

He had found no trace of Rip Hunter, or even Michael Hunter. He’d started out with a quick internet search, but that hadn’t got him anywhere. Apparently, Rip didn’t have a Facebook account or any of the other usual social media presences that people had. Normally there was something, even if it hadn’t been updated for a while. John had begun to dig deeper, and had made use of a few contacts that he had back in Liverpool to look into the other usual places that people left traces of their lives. He found nothing. Rip Hunter didn’t have a driving licence, and he’d never owned property as far as John could tell, or even applied for a credit card.

He blew out the smoke. “Who the bloody hell are you?” he wondered, out loud.

He really shouldn’t be cyberstalking the man, but he hadn’t thought it would be this hard. He’d expected to find the obligatory online presence and maybe some details of how his wife and son had died. John had told himself that it wasn’t just idle curiosity, he didn’t want to put his foot in it again about a sensitive subject, that was all.

His alarm sounded again, reminding him that it was past time for him to be dressed and showered. He wasn’t supposed to take his medication on an empty stomach, so he needed to eat at least something before he did that too. He stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray on the coffee table, and went to silence the alarm. He sat down on the bed, leaned back on the pillows and let his eyes wander across the ceiling for a moment. He had no idea why he was suddenly so interested in Rip Hunter. Perhaps it was because he wasn’t just another face in the teashop now, or maybe it was because he’d actually liked the guy.

John hadn’t exactly got a lot of friends nearby. Ritchie was Oxford, but John didn’t drive anymore or even own a car. That meant either getting a lift with Zed or a couple of hours on public transport to get to Oxford, and neither of those really appealed to him. Chas had gone back to the US to be with Renée and they had a daughter who had to be about ten now. Anne-Marie was in Liverpool, and hadn’t been in touch, which he supposed wasn’t that surprising given their past.

He realised that he was thinking like a kid in school worrying about his popularity in the playground. He didn’t need more friends. He was fine. He shook off his thoughts and headed for the bathroom to shower and get ready for work.

Half an hour later, he was clean, changed, had drunk his morning cup of tea, eaten half a piece of toast and taken his medication. He considered this to be about as good as things could be at 8am in the morning, as he bounced down the stairs to the shop. Zed hammered on the door.

He went to let her in. “Did you forget your keys in all of yesterday’s excitement?”

“Yeah, left them behind the counter,” said Zed, picking them up to show John. “You know, the new guy, Rip? He’s kind of nice. Maybe I should see if he’s dating anyone.”

“He’s ten years older than you and recently widowed. I’d steer clear, love,” said John, as he began to check things over for opening the shop.

“Recently widowed? So, you did get some information out of him?” asked Zed, as she put on her apron and started refilling the sugar bowls.

John rolled his eyes. “Only that he’d lost his wife and son. The poor bloke is just trying to find a bit of peace and quiet. He’s staying with his mother at the cottage on Fenchurch Lane.”

“That’s a nice house,” said Zed. “Did you order more scones? We’re out.”

“Bollocks, I forgot. I meant to do it yesterday after the lunch rush,” said John.

“Your new friend is going to be very disappointed,” said Zed, with a wag of her finger.

“He’s not my friend. He just happened to be in the right place at the right time,” said John. “And know more about babies than I do.”

He went to find the number for the baking company that he used for their scones, cakes and other sweet things. John’s aunt had always baked things herself, but he’d never been good at that, so he’d decided early on that buying things in was the only way forwards. Unfortunately, the baking company had a busy schedule and couldn’t get to them until the following afternoon, so that was that. They had enough to see them through, but their selection was going to be a little more limited than normal.

The bread delivery arrived on time and so did the other fresh ingredients for lunch that were delivered on a daily basis. The first bus brought a couple of groups of tourists in for their morning tea, and John put a small plastic “reserved” sign on the table in the corner before anyone else could sit at it. Rip arrived exactly at 10.30am as he usually did, just as Zed was printing out some pictures of Michaela Joan.

“Good morning,” said Rip, coming up to the counter. “I trust you are both well today.”

“We are,” said Zed. “You’re just in time to see the pictures that Kendra emailed us. Isn’t she adorable?”

Zed handed Rip a page with a large picture of Kendra holding Michaela that had the words “Michaela Joan Saunders, born 11.45am at the Mill House Teashop, 24th September, 7lbs 5ozs.”

“She said we can put it up in the shop so that everyone who was here can see that she’s doing well. She passed on her thanks to the two midwives too,” said Zed, with a grin.

Rip smiled as he looked at the picture, but it seemed to fade even as he spoke. “Yes, she’s a beautiful baby. I’m very glad I could help.” He handed the photo back to Zed.

“Mate, you’re a local hero,” said John. “Anyway, your table is ready. No scones today though, with everything yesterday I bollocksed up the order. Maybe you should try one of the cakes instead.”

Rip looked at the cakes behind the glass of the counter. “Hmm, I’m sorry to say that I don’t think your cake supplier is quite up to the standard of your bread supplier. The scones are quite good, but the cakes are less so. I’d like some toast with jam though.”

“Ouch,” said Zed. “I thought they were fine. John smokes too much to know the difference.”

John looked at the cakes and then back at Rip. “They’re really not that good?”

“Oh, well, they’re okay,” said Rip. “I’m just somewhat spoilt by my mother’s baking.”

“Hmm, maybe I should have a rethink on the cakes,” said John. “I don’t have much of a sweet tooth.”

“I’ll get you your toast,” said Zed, and she winked at John, who took a moment to understand what that was about.

He was going to have words with his waitress later.

“Sit down, I’ll make your tea,” said John.

“Thank you,” said Rip, and moved between the chairs to his usual table.

John put the tea on, being extra careful to warm the pot with boiling water and carefully measure the tea.

“You like him,” said Zed, bringing out the toast from the kitchen. “You were supposed to talk to him. Ask him out for a drink or something.”

“I’ve only just met him and he’s a customer,” said John. “Also he’s probably straight.”

“It doesn’t have to be romantic. You could use more friends,” said Zed. “He probably could too.”

John didn’t tell Zed that his own thoughts had been running in a similar direction, because he was actually slightly embarrassed to admit that maybe he was a little lonely.

“I’m doing just fine, thank you,” replied John, with annoyance. “And he looks like he wants to be left alone to read his book.”

He took out a tray, and put the teapot, milk and cup on it, and Zed added the toast with the jam and butter.

“Yeah, you’re doing so fine that the whiskey is missing from the kitchen,” said Zed, as she lifted the tray, and moved away to give Rip his tea with a knowing look in John’s direction.

John leaned on the counter, and watched Rip take the tea from the tray, and thank Zed. He was quite good looking… and John stopped himself there. He was not ready to let someone else into the car crash that was his life, and he wasn’t sure he ever would be. Who’d want someone like him anyway? It wasn’t like he had a lot going for him. He lived in a flat above a teashop in a small tourist trap destination where the only night life was a single pub and the rabbits shagging in the hedgerows. He couldn’t see anyone hanging around here long if they didn’t have to, and certainly not someone as well-spoken as Rip Hunter.

He shook his head and considered the cakes in the display. Maybe he should see if he could find a better supplier of cakes, ones that his more discerning customers actually wanted to eat. That had the added advantage of keeping his mind off other things. He wasn’t out the front when Rip closed his book and left for the day.


	2. Rip

Rip had been slightly disappointed that John, the proprietor of the teashop that he’d started frequenting, had been busy with the lunchtime rush when he’d finished his tea and toast that morning. Zed had taken his payment of the bill and said she’d see him tomorrow. He had enjoyed their brief chat the previous day following the birth of baby Michaela. He had perhaps hoped to exchange a few more words and add some brief interest to his day. Unfortunately, he reminded himself, other people had jobs and could not simply spend the day wandering the lanes or drinking tea.

His leg was bothering him slightly, so he walked home a little more slowly than usual. Mother would probably order that he rest it when he got home. She worried that he was overdoing it some days with his walking, which was a little ironic as the walks into town had been her idea. It was something to get him out of the house, and try to get him to return to the world of the living. He’d been quite annoyed with her to begin with. He had no wish to interact with other human beings when the only two humans that he really cared about were six feet deep in a grave in a cemetery in London.

The baby being born yesterday had brought back a lot of memories of the birth of his own son. Jonas had been unexpectedly early, and Miranda, who had absolutely no intention of leaving her work until the last moment, was caught rather unprepared. Rip had ended up helping to bring his son into the world in the less than ideal conditions of a refugee tent city in Calais, France. He wasn’t even supposed to be there, but he’d been between deployments and Miranda was going to be heading home the following week to start her maternity leave. Unfortunately, his paternity leave then had to be cut short because of activity by rebel forces in Libya, which was doubly annoying because he’d had plans to spend time with his baby son whilst listening to the Cricket World Cup on Test Match Special. Instead he had spent several weeks trying to track down the leader of a terrorist cell that he always suspected had ties to Al-Qaeda, but could never quite prove.

It had been a waste of his very limited time with his family, but he hadn’t known that then. It had also been the first time that he had heard the name Vandal Savage, a name that he wished to god he could erase from his memory.

He leaned on a dry-stone wall, reminding himself that he was not back in London now, nor was he on duty. He had nothing in his life except walks to teashops and the pain of an injury that had nearly killed him. On the worst days he wished that it had.

He prompted himself to breathe properly. There were no threats to his life on this quiet country lane. He was close to the cottage now and it wasn’t much further to walk. The sun was shining, and he should really try to remember that not everything in his life was terrible. He was rather beginning to enjoy the time he spent at the teashop.

He walked the last few yards back to the cottage. It would have been hard to get anymore British than his mother’s current home. It was a large redbrick cottage, with a thatched roof and roses around the door. The walls were cut with black beams of wood at acute angles, and gave a clue to the building’s great age. It looked like something that Shakespeare himself could have lived in. He had to bend down slightly to enter the building as the door had been made when the general height of the population was much less. Luckily the ceilings of the rooms inside had been set at a higher level.

“No more babies to act as midwife for today then?” asked his mother, as he came through the door and hung up his coat.

He gave her a withering look, and then a quick kiss on the forehead. “No, mother. I think we can chalk that one up to a freak occurrence. She is now officially saddled with the name “Michaela” in my honour though.”

“There are far worse names,” said his mother. “I know that you never liked it for obvious reasons, but there’s nothing wrong with it.”

“I suppose so,” said Rip.

His mother still insisted on calling him Michael, even though it had been many years since he’d used it in anything other than official documentation.

“Gideon called while you were out,” said his mother.

That got his attention. “She did? I thought that she was still on deployment.”

“Apparently they’re in port for repairs. She was asking if she could come and visit. I think she’s missing you,” she said.

“I doubt that very much,” said Rip, although he was definitely missing her.

She had been his best friend for many years, but she had a demanding job and whilst she had done her best to be with him during his recovery, she could only take so much time away from her ship. He’d just been lucky that she’d been awaiting new orders when the attack had happened. She’d been the one there in the hospital when he’d awoken, and the one to tell him that his family were dead. She’d also been the one to drive him to his mother’s cottage in the Cotswolds and tell him that he needed time away from London.

He hadn’t wanted to go, but she’d made it clear that he didn’t have a choice. He couldn’t keep chasing shadows. He couldn’t keep calling in favours to get information that he shouldn’t have. He couldn’t keep surviving on three hours of sleep and painkillers washed down with last night’s coffee and a chaser of rum. She wouldn’t let him. It wasn’t good for him. It was killing him.

They had argued and for a while he had been angry with her, but his mother had pointed out how stupid that was. He’d called Gideon and apologised for his behaviour, and she had accepted his apology, which he still felt was more than he deserved from her.

“I’ll call her back,” said Rip.

“Very well, but don’t talk for long. I’ve got a steak pie in the oven for lunch, and then you can help me with some gardening this afternoon. The weather is looking perfect for weeding the vegetable patch,” said his mother.

Rip sighed internally. His mother believed in keeping people busy, but it was probably better than moping around the house. Although if his leg continued to give him trouble then he might have to forgo the gardening. He limped over to the phone.

“I’ll get your painkillers,” said his mother.

“Thank you,” he said very gratefully, and lowered himself into the armchair that was next to the phone. There was little point in denying that he was in pain when it was so obvious. His mother knew all his tells anyway.

He picked up the receiver and dialled Gideon’s number. She answered almost immediately.

“Captain! Mary passed on my message then?”

“She said that you had called, yes,” replied Rip. He had yet to persuade Gideon to stop using his rank, and all evidence seemed to point to it never happening.

“I hear that you’re in port,” said Rip. “How is Portsmouth?”

“Oh, the usual. The stench of marine diesel pervades the air and it’s currently raining.”

Rip chuckled. “Some things never change. And our ship?”

“We may have got ourselves into a very small altercation with a Russian submarine. Which of course did not happen and no one at all will be briefed by me about it later,” said Gideon. “It did mean that we sustained some minor damage. Lieutenant Jackson is already supervising the repair crews, and we expect to be back at sea in less than two weeks.”

Rip nodded. “That’s good news. So, you have leave?”

“Yes, I’m taking the second week. Lieutenant Commander Lance will be in charge while I’m away, but I gave her shore leave first.”

“Are you sure that it’s wise to leave the Americans unsupervised with our ship?” asked Rip, only half joking.

“Really, Captain, we have to let them have some of the fun. They’re providing half the budget for the Waverider, and they tend to get annoyed if we don’t let them play with their toy at least occasionally,” replied Gideon.

Out of all of the things that he’d given up when he’d decided not to accept another sea draft, the Waverider was the biggest sacrifice of them all. She was an experimental submarine, paid for jointly by the British and American governments, and tasked mainly with covert surveillance. She was one of a kind, and he’d have continued to serve on her forever if he could have. His life priorities had changed though, he had a young family and he’d come to the end of his draft. The job in London was supposed to be safer. It wouldn’t have all the risks that came with sea time and he’d be able to go home at nights, spend time with his son and wife. Things hadn’t exactly worked out as planned.

“When are you coming to visit?” Rip asked, distracting himself before his thoughts could turn more deeply and darkly to his lost family.

“I’ve got a few things to tie up here, so I thought perhaps next Monday? I should be done with all the red tape by then,” she suggested.

“That sounds good. I’ll get Mother to make up the spare bed,” said Rip. “Will you stay for just the one night?”

“Actually, I was hoping I could impose upon you a little longer, until the following Thursday? If Mary doesn’t mind?”

“I’m sure she won’t. She’ll be pleased to see you,” said Rip.

“Good, then it’s settled. I’ll see you on Monday. It should be early afternoon by the time I get to you,” said Gideon.

“I am already looking forwards to it,” said Rip.

“As am I, Captain. See you on Monday,” said Gideon, and put the phone down.

At least he had something good to think about now. He put down the phone receiver and a few moments later his mother was bringing him his painkillers and a glass of water. An amazing smell was wafting from the kitchen and making him quite hungry.

“The Commander is coming to stay then?” asked Mary.

“Yes, she is. She suggested arriving on Monday and leaving on Thursday. I hope that was alright. We don’t get to see each other often these days,” said Rip.

“Of course it’s fine,” said his mother. “She is always welcome here. I’ll get the spare bed made up, and go shopping tomorrow. Now, come along, it’s time for lunch.”

Rip took his painkillers and nodded. His leg was agony today and the painkillers would take a while to work. He let out a long sigh.

“Can you pass me my walking stick? I don’t think I can put any weight on this leg,” he said, and he sounded defeated even to his own ears. “I must have walked further than I thought this morning.”

Mary frowned, but passed him his stick. “I’ll take a look at it later. You probably just need to rest it.”

“Probably,” said Rip, but he was able to get up and lean on the stick well enough to get him to the cottage’s kitchen. He tried to ignore the fact that his mother was hovering close by in case his bad leg decided to give out as he walked.

To think, once upon a time he’d commanded his own ship, a cutting-edge naval vessel, and been tipped for great things after that. Now, he spent his days walking to the local teashop in the morning and napping in the afternoon, or if he needed some excitement, helping his mother in the garden. It wasn’t exactly the kind of life he’d expected to have when he had graduated top of his class from Naval College. How the mighty had fallen.

***

Rip arrived at the teashop the following morning in better spirits than he’d been in for a while. He had to admit that he was looking forwards to Gideon’s visit, however brief it might be. He might not be part of that life anymore, but he still had an academic interest. He still had several days before she arrived though, so he saw no reason to step out of his usual morning routine, and if it meant he got to exchange a few more words with the blond teashop proprietor, well, that wasn’t something that he was averse to.

He smiled as he entered the Mill House and saw that the reserved sign was once again on his usual table. He had favoured it from the beginning because it gave him a good view of the door, and allowed him to put his back to the wall. It was an old habit that he’d never seen the need to shake, and lately indulging it seemed to calm his nervous energy. He refused to countenance the idea that he might have Post Traumatic Stress, but he definitely found that he liked to keep an eye on his surroundings. He supposed that was only natural after everything that had happened.

He made his way to his table with a nod to Zed, who was serving another customer. John was nowhere to be seen again, so probably in the kitchen. Rip took off his coat and sat down with his book, and was just about to open it when the teashop owner appeared with a tray that he set down on the table.

The tray seemed to contain his usual pot of tea and then several pieces of cake with forks beside them.

“Okay, you don’t like the cake, so I’m trying out some new suppliers and Zed keeps telling me that my taste-buds are ruined. Which is pretty rich if you ask me, because she just says that they’re all good. Help? Please?” John asked.

Rip’s eyebrows raised. “You want me to try the cakes? And tell you which ones I think are best?”

“Yeah, mate, that _is_ the idea of a taste test,” said John. “Or, you know, I could just take them all back into the kitchen and accept that our cakes are substandard for you Londoners.”

“I’m sure that I wouldn’t want my fellow Londoners to suffer the ignominy of having to eat substandard cake,” said Rip, with a small smile. “Are you joining me? It seems quiet this morning.”

There were definitely a lot less customers in the shop than there usually were now that he had time to look around.

“Yeah, the church has got a coffee morning on,” said John, sounding like that was a very tiresome thing indeed. “All the old biddies can get a cup of awful instant rubbish for fifty pence and clear their conscience at the same time. And just to really piss me off, the second tour party was cancelled this morning when the coach broke down.” He sat down and leaned an elbow on the table. “There are days when I honestly can’t believe this is my life.” He handed Rip a fork.

“I know how you feel. What do we start with?” asked Rip.

John indicated one of the plates, that had three different slices of cake cut up on it.

“That one. Most expensive of the lot, but I could probably put the prices up a bit and make it work. That’s a walnut coffee cake, a chocolate fudge cake and your basic lemon drizzle.”

Rip stuck a fork into the edge of the coffee cake and tasted it. John did the same thing, looking thoughtful. It really wasn’t bad. Probably not up to his mother’s standards but definitely close. Anyone who hadn’t ever eaten Mary Xavier’s cakes would probably be very happy with it.

“Good texture, well flavoured, right amount of icing to cake ratio,” said Rip, after he had finished munching.

“I was just going to go with marks out of ten,” said John. “Maybe a seven?”

“You could stop smoking and your sense of taste would probably recover,” said Rip.

“Don’t you start too,” said John, with a gesture of the fork towards Rip. “Try that one,” he added and poked the chocolate cake.

Rip did, and was assailed by the taste of a delicious gooey dark chocolate sponge.

“Oh, that’s good. Moist, delicious, dark chocolate complimenting the sweetness of the filling without being too rich,” he said, indicating it with the prongs of his fork.

John chewed thoughtfully. “Okay, yeah, that one is pretty tasty.”

Rip looked at John with barely disguise despair. “Pretty tasty” hardly covered it.

“How on earth did you decide to go into the food business? These are totally wasted on you,” said Rip. “You said the teashop was left to you in your aunt’s will, but I assume you could have just sold it.”

John grinned. “Yeah, well, there’s a long story behind the answer to that question, and yes, I could have sold it. But the much shorter answer is that my sister told me that I couldn’t do it. So, of course I had to prove her wrong. Edie always liked me, although god knows why, and all I had to do was keep an already successful business going. Admittedly a business that barely makes enough to keep me in ciggies and fried eggs, but it came with a flat above the shop, and that was a lot better than sleeping on Cheryl’s couch…”

John shut his mouth as if he’d said something that he hadn’t meant to.

“Cheryl is your sister?” asked Rip.

“Yeah, older than me,” said John, “and still thinks she needs to take care of me, whilst being _very_ unsupportive of most of my life choices. What about you? Got any siblings?”

Rip shook his head. “Only child. I assume that your joining the Police was one of the choices that she didn’t approve of?”

“One of many. Come on, these cakes won’t try themselves,” John said, in a rather clumsy change of subject.

Rip decided to go with it. If John didn’t want to talk about something then he was in no position to push him. He didn’t know John that well and Rip had enough to hide in his own recent past.

Rip dug into the rest of the samples, trying each one methodically. None of them were quite as good as the fabulous chocolate cake, but some of them were very pleasant. By the end of the tasting session they’d identified a new cake supplier for John to try.

“You could just learn to bake,” said Rip.

“Oh no, you don’t want me trying to bake. I’d probably burn the place down,” said John. “I know what I’m good at, and if you want a fry-up or a well-seasoned omelette then I’m your man, but cakes are not my thing. Thank you for your help, anyway. Zed and I would still be arguing about whether death by chocolate cake is a real thing.”

“I enjoyed it,” said Rip, and he realised that he had. He hadn’t read anymore of his book, but he’d drunk an entire pot of tea and spent all the time chatting about the teashop and the town and John’s culinary shortcomings.

“Good,” said John. “I’ve still got a lot to repay you for.”

“Nonsense,” said Rip, “you were as much involved as I was.” He checked his watch. “I really should get going. How much do I owe you for the cake?”

“Nothing, they were all free samples,” said John. “Just pay Zed for the tea. I should go contact the new cake people.”

John lifted the tray, and then set it down again as two men walked into the teashop. Rip watched as his body language subtly changed, and now he could see the policeman as John’s muscles tensed and he marched up to the latest arrivals.

“Out,” said John, sternly.

“We just have a couple of questions,” said the taller of the two with the camera in his hands. “We heard that you had an eventful day on Monday. We wondered if you could point us in the direction of this Michael guy who helped deliver the baby?”

Rip wouldn’t have noticed the glance in his direction if he hadn’t frozen at the moment his name was mentioned. He gave a quick shake of his head. He had no wish for anyone who wasn’t a trusted friend to know where he currently was.

“Only came in that once, mate, and I’ve got no comment to make other than what’s on the poster in the window,” said John. “Now scram before I call the cops.”

The two men turned and left. John watched them go, making sure that they really had left before returning to Rip’s table to collect the tray.

“Sorry about that. Just a couple of local hacks looking for a story. They freelance for the Daily Mail when they get something really juicy. I didn’t fancy ending up as someone’s latest bit of gossip,” said John.

“Thank you for not telling them that I was here. You sound like you have experience,” said Rip, glad of John’s obvious aversion to the press. He had his own reasons for avoiding them, and he noted that John hadn’t even asked about that.

“Yeah, you could say that,” said John. “We’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

“Most definitely,” replied Rip, as he paid his bill and left a generous tip.

John gave a small nod of acknowledgement as he returned to the kitchen, and Rip could see that he was smiling slightly.

***

Rip found himself curious about John’s past, and given John’s dislike of the local paper’s journalists, he thought that might be the place to start. It took him a few days to decide to actually do something, partly because he felt somewhat guilty about stalking the man, but as he was spending a good deal of time at the teashop it probably counted as a security check to look into the background of the owner. At least that was what he was telling himself.

Rip went to the library and found the back issues of the local paper. An article about John wasn’t even that hard to find. Just over a year ago, John Constantine had re-opened the local teashop, after renovating it. He was a former policeman from Liverpool and taking over from his Aunt Edie who had left it to him in her will. All of that he knew. The next bit he didn’t.

“Mr Constantine became a well-known name in Liverpool for bringing the serial killer Alex Logue to justice. However, the investigation took a toll on his health and he left the police force soon after the arrest.

“I needed a change of pace,” said Mr Constantine. “And this opportunity came along at just the right time. I miss my aunt, but I’m really pleased to be able to take on her teashop.”

Mr Constantine will be reopening the teashop on Monday from 9am.”

Rip could read between the lines. It was very likely that John had been discharged from the force for mental health reasons, and he doubted that John’s quote there had been in response to any question about why he’d left Liverpool. No wonder he didn’t like journalists very much. John probably hadn’t wanted anyone to know about his past, let alone his connection to a serial killer. Some people treated serial killers like they were rock stars, and they had strangely cult-like followings. John definitely would have wanted to avoid attracting that kind of attention.

Rip himself didn’t remember the murders, but then he didn’t pay much attention to those parts of the newspapers. He was usually too busy examining the international situation in whatever part of the world required his attention. Rip had been busy keeping the world safe, and somehow that had never left him a lot of time for actually seeing what was happening in the world.

He looked up everything that he could find on Alex Logue and immediately regretted doing so. The man had killed six teenage girls in horrific murders where the girls were cut up and then apparently used in some kind of occult ritual. The newspapers had dubbed him the “Black Magic Killer”. Each murder site had corresponded to a site on a sigil that Logue held as having great power when activated by blood. John had worked out the pattern and that Logue was the one responsible. Logue had become obsessed with John, sending him harrowing evidence of his crimes to taunt the man who was so close to catching him. There had been an attempt on John’s own life after the fifth murder, and there were very few details of that anywhere. John had been closing in but, unfortunately, he hadn’t been quite fast enough to prevent the sixth and final murder. Logue had been found dismembering his own daughter, Astra, when John and his team had come to arrest him.

Rip could pull some strings and probably get John’s full service record, but that would mean getting in touch with his former colleagues in London. He viewed that prospect with distaste and the promise of old memories being pulled to the surface. He didn’t need to know any more about the owner of the teashop, in fact perhaps he now knew more than he really wanted to or should.

He pushed away the issue of the national newspaper that had detailed the killings, and leaned back in his chair. He doubted that it would ever come up in conversation that he knew about Alex Logue and his victims. After all, they had mostly discussed cakes and the life of the small town that they both found themselves in. There was no reason to bring up the past, and Rip certainly didn’t want to discuss his own.

Rip decided that he’d done enough damage for one day, and got up to leave. The library had a multi-purpose room off to one side that could be hired by local groups. Today it seemed to be being used by an afternoon art class, and it was about five seconds after he had observed this that he bumped into Zed Martin, carrying a sketch pad and an artist’s caddy of paints and pastels.

“Rip!” said Zed. “So, this is where you hide when you’re not drinking tea.”

“Hello,” said Rip, somewhat flustered and already feeling a little guilty at being caught in the library. He was terribly out of practice at being covert in any way. “Actually, this is only the second time I’ve been in here, and the first was to register for a library card. Mother thought it would be a good idea.”

Zed smiled. “But you only ever read one book.”

“It’s a very _good_ book,” said Rip, the slightest smile gracing his own lips. “So, you attend art class here?”

“I teach it,” said Zed. “It’s just for fun, we don’t judge anyone’s work. You should come along.”

Rip shook his head. “Thank you, but no. I was not blessed with any artistic ability.”

“Anyone can learn to draw,” said Zed, and then added. “Okay, except for John.”

That sounded as if it came from a place of experience. Rip raised an eyebrow.

“Really? He came to the class?” he asked, although he found it hard to imagine.

Zed laughed. “No, he tried to redesign the menu at the teashop. It was _bad_ and I had to rescue it before he decided to send it to the printers.”

“I can only imagine,” said Rip. “He does seem like quite an interesting man.”

“You have no idea. I’m meeting him at the pub for a drink tonight. Maybe you should come and join us,” suggested Zed.

Rip shook his head. “I don’t want to intrude, and my mother is expecting me back for dinner.”

“You wouldn’t be intruding, and you’ve got time to go home and get some food,” said Zed. “I can even drive over and pick you up if you like. I noticed that your leg was bothering you earlier.”

His leg _had_ been painful earlier, but he was surprised that Zed had noticed. He never took his walking stick out in public, which was a bone of contention with his mother. It was his continuing hope that exercise would improve his fitness, although at the last appointment with his physiotherapist he had been told that he was now into the realm of diminishing returns.

“I’m not sure that John will be happy about me turning up unannounced,” said Rip, finding another excuse.

He did like the idea of spending time with John and Zed, after all it was either that or another evening in with his mother, but he was not the best company at the moment. The death of his wife and child had consumed him and some days it felt like his grief was all there was, an unending fall into nothingness where he could never feel happiness again. Today he had been functional though, chatting to Zed and John at the teashop before making his excursion to the library. He had no real excuse not to accept the invitation.

Zed pulled out her phone and before Rip could say anything, she had typed out a text message and sent it. She showed the screen to Rip which displayed a short message to “John”.

“There, now he knows, and you have to come,” said Zed.

Rip let out a put-upon sigh. “I suppose I have no choice then. Thank you for the kind invitation. What time can I expect my lift?”

“Probably 8pm by the time I’m finished here and had something to eat. It’s the cottage on Fenchurch Lane, right?”

“Yes, that’s the one,” said Rip.

“We should exchange numbers,” said Zed.

“Oh, right, yes,” said Rip, and got out his own phone. It was actually registered to his mother, but that didn’t matter. He gave Zed his number and added hers to his contacts.

“I’d better get going. My class are waiting. I’ll see you later,” said Zed, and then she was gone in flurry of brown curls and with the faint whiff of turpentine.

Rip shook his head. He had not really meant to agree to the invitation. He didn’t need friends in the town, that just complicated his situation and he would be going back to London soon. Although he had been saying that for over two months now and neither his mental nor his physical health seemed to be up to the return yet. He let out a long breath and made the walk home slowly.

His mother was entirely too happy to see him going out for the night. It wasn’t anything special, just a couple of drinks with some new friends.

“Is this Zed person going to drive you home again?” Mary asked, pointedly.

“I don’t know, Mum,” said Rip, tiredly. “But it doesn’t matter, I can walk like I normally do, or if my leg is too sore then I’ll call a cab.”

“You’ll be lucky. I doubt Fred will be sober by that point,” said Mary. There was only one taxi in the town and its availability entirely depended on whether its owner felt like working that day. “You’d best call the company in Furnham. I have a card somewhere.”

“I’m sure that I won’t need to,” said Rip. “I can rest my leg now and it’ll be fine by the time I come to walk home.”

Mary was already sorting through a drawer and pulling out a card. “There you go. Just in case.”

Rip sighed and accepted the card. By the time Zed came to pick him up he was wondering if Mary was going to send him with a packed lunch and a raincoat. Admittedly it had been some time since he’d gone out for the evening, but she did seem unusually solicitous. He knew that his mother had been very concerned about him ever since the attack and probably with very good reason, he had nearly died. She too was grieving for the loss of her daughter-in-law and grandchild and he probably didn’t acknowledge that enough.

When he thought of it that way he felt less ridiculous about giving his mother a kiss goodbye as she saw him off from the door of the cottage. He also had his walking stick, just in case he needed it, which he was only taking to make her feel better.

“I have my phone, and I will let you know when I’m leaving,” he said. “It’s just a couple of drinks.”

Mary nodded, and mostly hid her worry successfully. “Of course, go have fun. I’ll see you later.”

He hobbled down the path and dropped into the passenger seat of the car, a little more heavily than he’d hoped for. His bad leg could leave him off balance. Zed was grinning.

“Your mom is really sweet,” said Zed.

“She is, and also rather overprotective,” said Rip.

“You’re lucky,” said Zed, pulling out onto the country lane. “Mine couldn’t care less about me.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Rip. “Mary is actually my adoptive mother, and I am very lucky to have her. My birth parents aren’t part of my life. I used to feel quite angry about that, but I’ve become more understanding as I’ve got older.”

Zed glanced at him and then her eyes were back on the road. “She seems lovely. I wish mine had put me up for adoption. I got as far away as possible from them as soon as I could.”

“Mary raised me as if I was her own, and I couldn’t have wished for a more supportive and loving parent,” said Rip. “I’m sorry that your own childhood wasn’t a good one, but you seem to be happy here in Little Duckford.”

“Yeah, I kind of liked the place,” said Zed. “I came over on an art scholarship programme and I needed somewhere to live that was cheaper than Oxford. Then John offered me the job in the teashop, and did a ton of paperwork to make sure I got my visa sorted out. I think he pulled a few strings too.”

“He seems like a good man,” said Rip.

“Yeah, his heart is in the right place, even if he’s got a bit of a gruff exterior,” said Zed. “I wish he’d accept more help…”

Rip frowned. “With the teashop?”

“No, he’s pretty good at dealing with the day to day running of the shop, although the accounts could use some work. It’s more the rest of it. Still, he’s doing better than he was,” said Zed.

Rip wasn’t sure what that meant, and didn’t really know how to ask. However, Zed changed the topic, almost as if she realised that she was talking about something that John wouldn’t necessarily want Rip to know about. They pulled into the pub carpark a few moments later, and the two of them walked into the only pub in Little Duckford together.

The pub was a classic British affair, called “The Duckling’s Crossing” and had a traditional dark wood bar with brass fittings and wooden beer pulls. There were various tables scattered around the interior and booths set around the edges of the room. The duck theme was evident in the décor, with duck patterned curtains, wallpaper and a few pictures. It was clear that the landlord had taken the name and run with it.

Rip mentally identified the exits, noted the lines of sight through the windows and briefly scanned the patrons, quickly sizing up their threat levels. Then he realised what he was doing and felt slightly stupid. This was a pub in a small English town, barely bigger than a village, and it was extremely unlikely that anything bad would happen to him here.

John was sat in one of the booths in a corner, nursing a pint of medium brown beer, so ale rather than lager. The man went up a notch in Rip’s estimations. However, when he looked up and saw Zed and Rip he seemed to be rather surprised.

“Look who I found,” said Zed, brightly, as if she hadn’t texted John to let him know that Rip was coming.

John was giving Zed a very long suffering look.

“Didn’t you know I was coming?” asked Rip. “I thought you texted John?” He looked between the two of them with slight bafflement.

“She’s a wily one this one,” said John. “I _own_ a phone, but I couldn’t tell you where it is right now and I doubt it’s even got any charge.”

“Sorry,” said Zed, with a grin. “But you looked like you could use a night out, and you weren’t going to come unless John knew.”

Rip rolled his eyes. “I see.”

“Well, you’re here now,” said John. “Sit down and Zed will buy you a pint to make up for the false pretences.”

“I guess that’s fair,” said Zed. “What do you want?”

Rip slid into the seat opposite John. “What’s good?”

“That depends on what you like. They buy from the Hook Norton Brewery here, so it’s all local. The Hooky is your standard pint, slightly hoppy with a touch of malt. I’m on the Old Hooky, more malty and more alcoholic. The Gold is their pale ale, or they’ve got a stout if you’re into the heavy stuff,” said John.

Rip knew his beer, but hadn’t really spent much time drinking in this part of the world. He looked over at the bar.

“Maybe I’ll give the Hooky a go to begin with,” said Rip. “I can always try a different one for the next pint.”

“Now, that’s what I like to hear,” said John. “I guess you’re staying for at least a couple then.”

“There seems little point in coming out for just one,” replied Rip, with amusement.

Zed was positively grinning now and went to the bar to order.

“Zed’s been trying to get me out more,” said John. His fingers played with an unlit cigarette. “I think you got pulled into the net by mistake. Either that or she thinks you need to get out more too.”

“My mother would agree with her,” said Rip, ruefully. “I haven’t felt much like it though.”

“Me neither,” said John.

And there was an awkward silence for a moment. Rip would have liked to ask why John felt that way, but he also didn’t want to pry and perhaps John felt the same.

“We’re a couple of miserable gits, aren’t we?” said John. “The teashop was supposed to be a new start, but I guess you can’t have a completely fresh start, you always bring your baggage with you.”

“Indeed,” said Rip, knowing the feeling that John was talking about. “It’s just as well, perhaps, that we have Zed to do things like this.”

John looked over at the bar, where Zed had ordered the drinks and was now returning to their table.

“Yeah, but don’t tell her that,” said John, a smile spreading across his lips.

Zed reached the table and placed Rip’s pint in front of him.

“Thank you,” said Rip. “Is this a regular thing that the two of you do?”

“Not regular,” said Zed, sitting down with what John assumed was a pint of lager. “I drag him out when I can, or sometimes we have a drink after work in John’s flat. But _someone_ drank all the good whiskey, so here we are.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said John. “I’ll buy us a new bottle.”

“Anyway a change of scenery is good,” said Zed. “Most evenings I’m at class, so it’s only Fridays and weekends that I’m in town, unless class is cancelled or it’s outside term. Did you bring the cards?”

“Of course,” said John. “Can we please play something other than “Go Fish” this time?”

“We could play all sorts of things if you didn’t cheat,” said Zed.

“Look, it’s not cheating, it’s just another way of playing the game,” said John.

He got out the pack of cards and Rip watched as he split the cards with one hand and then manipulated the pack back together, all using the fingers of his right hand.

“Show off,” said Zed. “Anything you’d like to play, Rip?”

“Er, have you heard of Crazy Eights?” he asked.

It was fairly easy and quick, the only tactics were in the order you played your cards. He had spent a lot of time on board ships waiting for things to happen or between watches playing cards. Although people very quickly learnt that some games were not to be played with him. Rip counted cards, and he honestly barely even knew that he was doing it because it came so naturally. Maths and statistics were something that he found easy, and were one of the reasons why he’d climbed the ranks.

“I know it,” said John, as he shuffled the cards with a practiced hand. “Kind of a kids’ game.”

“I suppose so, but you probably don’t want to play anything more… tactical with me,” said Rip.

“That sounds like a challenge,” said John. “What about Pontoon?”

“Now that would be quite a bad idea, especially if we’re placing bets,” said Rip.

“We can play for pennies,” said Zed.

“Do you enjoy having your money taken?” asked Rip.

“That definitely sounds like a challenge. Alright, let’s do this. Penny ante,” said John, with a smirk.

Rip killed at Pontoon and he knew it. After six rounds, John’s smirk was gone, and the entire pile of pennies was in front of Rip. Zed was giggling after every hand that he won.

“Have you had enough?” asked Rip, good naturedly.

“How are you doing that?” asked John.

“Statistical probabilities,” said Rip.

“Card counting,” said John.

“I did warn you,” replied Rip.

John began to laugh, and then he shook his head. “I need a smoke. I’ll be back in ten. Get the next round in while I’m gone, since you wiped the floor with us.”

Rip allowed himself a small smile. Zed gave him an amused look as he got up and went to get the next round of drinks.

They tried other games, once John was back from his smoke break, and unless it was a game of total chance, Rip won most of them. He felt a little embarrassed and wondered if perhaps he should have thrown a few hands, but John and Zed seemed to actually be enjoying it.

“How drunk do we have to get you before we start winning?” asked John, after they had once again lost to Rip several times.

“More drunk than I am now,” said Rip, who did not think that four pints down counted as drunk.

“Shots it is then,” said John, with his hands on the table.

Rip’s eyes widened. “Oh no, I need to…” Then he stopped, because all he had to do was get home at some point.

“What?” asked Zed. “You need to what?”

“I actually realised that I don’t need to be anywhere,” said Rip. “Rack them up.”

“John, are you sure this is a good idea?” asked Zed.

“It’s fine,” said John. “Like the man said, we’ve got nowhere to be tomorrow.”

“We have a teashop to open,” said Zed.

“I’ve opened the shop hungover before,” said John, and went back to the bar. He returned a few moments later with shots of tequila.

The inevitable happened from that point. The tequila was drunk, although Zed had sensibly moved on to soft drinks, so John drank hers too. Rip didn’t lose the next round of cards, so John bought another round of tequila, which he and Rip drank. Rip pointed out that he didn’t like tequila, so John had to buy him a glass of whiskey to make up for that, and of course he joined him because it would have been rude not to.

Zed went home after the second round of tequila, and left Rip and John to their drinking. John was doing card tricks with the cards and cheating outrageously with sleight of hand tricks. He still wasn’t winning because he was far too drunk to manipulate the cards without Rip catching him. Rip was actually laughing for the first time it quite a while.

“Last orders!” shouted the barman.

“One more round?” asked Rip.

“If you’re buying,” said John.

Rip went to the bar and got in another round of whiskeys. He sat down heavily, and his foot slipped, his bad leg complaining about its recent treatment. Some of the whiskey slopped onto the table.

“Bollocks!”

“How did you hurt your leg anyway?” asked John, downing the remainder in his glass.

Rip looked down at the table. “Give me one of your cigarettes, and I’ll tell you the story.”

John regarded Rip thoughtfully for a moment, before offering him one from his pack.

“Am I going to get into trouble from your mum for this?”

“Possibly. I’ve done a lot worse recently,” replied Rip, although he had no wish to think about that. He took the cigarette and downed his own glass of spirits in one gulp. He was definitely going to regret this in the morning.

John got up, just a little unsteady on his feet. He offered Rip a hand up, and reluctantly Rip took it. John pulled him to his feet and the two men looked at each other for a moment, hands clasped. John smiled and then he clapped Rip on the back, shoving his cigarette in his mouth. Rip grabbed his walking stick and the two of them headed outside to the smoking area.

There was a bench out there and Rip sat down, putting his own cigarette in his mouth.

“I haven’t smoked in years,” he said.

“Then this will probably remind you why you don’t anymore,” said John, lighting up.

He handed his lighter to Rip, who cupped his hands around the flame, lit his cigarette and inhaled. Then he coughed. John laughed and patted him on the back, accepting the lighter back with his other hand.

“Told you so,” said John. “Come on, I want the story.”

“It’s not a very good one,” said Rip. “There is no happy ending.”

“Most real-life stories are like that,” said John.

Rip took a deep breath. “I’m a “civil servant” in a particular arm of Her Majesty’s Government. I was charged with tracking down a very bad man. An international arms dealer. His name was Vandal Savage. I came very close to being able to order his arrest on a number of occasions.” His words were clipped and he was angry at himself. “On the final occasion, I decided to see to the details personally to ensure that there were no mistakes.”

He took another drag on his cigarette and this time let the smoke sit for a second before he exhaled. The nicotine was hitting his bloodstream and giving him a slight high, just enough to take the edge off the inevitable horror of recounting this tale.

“And?” asked John, puffing on his own cigarette.

“I failed again, except the mistake was mine this time. He slipped through my fingers, but now he had a name to put to his pursuer. I thought that I’d been careful, but obviously I hadn’t been careful enough. About a month later, I had arranged to take my family away on holiday for a week, to see my mother and get out of London. We packed the car and we were all ready to go when Jonas remembered that he’d left his favourite toy on the table in the kitchen. It was a cold, crisp morning and I went back to get it while Miranda started the car to get it warming up. As soon as she turned the key…”

He stopped, and swallowed. He didn’t remember the moment. It lay forgotten in the dead braincells that the head injury had taken from him. He had vague fuzzy recollections that were most likely the aftermath of the explosion, but never anything clear. He forged onwards with his account, best to get it finished now.

“He’d planted a bomb in the car. I assume that it was meant to kill me alone, as I usually drove it to work, but instead it killed Miranda and Jonas.”

He blinked tears away from his eyes, taking another drag of the cigarette to do anything to forestall them.

“I was on my way back to the car, but far enough away that I survived. I spent three months in hospital recovering from my injuries and I’m told that I almost lost my leg entirely. I was unconscious and in a coma for a large part of that time so I don’t remember that part. A piece of shrapnel cut through some of the leg’s muscle and broke the bone in three places.”

John finished his smoke and stubbed out the butt. He sat silently for a moment.

“Did they catch the bastard?” asked John, finally.

“No,” said Rip. “I wanted to go after him again once I was out of the hospital, but my health wasn’t up to it and… I made some bad decisions. I was told to take an extended leave of absence until my head was in better order and my leg had healed.”

“But you’re going to get him one day,” said John, a statement, not a question.

“Yes, even if I die trying,” said Rip, finishing his own cigarette.

John nodded as if he hadn’t expected any other answer.

“Maybe try not to let it come to that,” said John, “the teashop needs all the customers it can get.”

Rip laughed at that, and then John joined him. The two of them sat on the bench, smokes finished and laughed as the pub closed up and drunken revellers headed home. There was a slightly hysterical note to it, but Rip managed to stop and rub at his watering eyes.

John offered him a hand up, and again the grip lingered, lasting a few seconds longer than was really necessary. Rip felt a small spark at the back of his mind. Was John flirting with him? It seemed unlikely, but then there had been a lot of significant looks and now contact. Rip was very out of practice in such matters. He had married Miranda nearly twelve years ago, and hadn’t even looked at anyone else all that time. But if John was flirting with him then that meant that John was interested in him… romantically.

Rip’s brain gave up at that point. He’d drunk too much to deal with that right now, but if he’d needed more proof then John’s next line was it.

“You have really nice eyes,” said John, and then he was offering Rip an arm to lean. “Come on, let’s get you home so you can take the weight off that leg.”

They tottered through the village, with Rip leaning heavily on his cane and John. He should have brought his painkillers, but they wouldn’t have mixed well with the alcohol anyway. John saw him to the door of his mother’s cottage, and then departed with a wave and a shout of “See you tomorrow, Hunter!”

And Rip was left wondering if John really had been trying to flirt or if he’d just been drunk and friendly. Then there was the question of whether Rip had enjoyed the flirting, and as he let himself into the cottage and gingerly climbed the stairs, he felt a pang of guilt settle in his chest. Miranda and Jonas had been dead for over a year, although he barely remembered the first three months of that. Their loss was still raw and new.

Even if he was interested in John Constantine, now was the wrong time to do anything about it. He still had Vandal Savage to track down. Justice for Miranda and Jonas came first, as soon as he was well enough to get back to London. Everything that happened in this small town was just a diversion and he needed to hold onto that.


	3. Corrigan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for bad language, because it's John.

John awoke with a crashing hangover, which he supposed he had to expect after his night down the pub. He hadn’t made it to bed and had slept on the floor of the bedroom on a pile of dirty washing. That was quite impressive even for him. He normally had a homing instinct when it came to hitting the bed, but he probably shouldn’t have had those extra couple of whiskey tots when he got home.

As usual he patted his pockets for his cigarettes and found them… missing. He groaned. He wondered where he’d left them. He tried to remember the last time he’d had them, but after he’d got home everything was pretty much a blur. He did remember telling Rip that he had nice eyes, and he let out an audible groan at that. He only came out with cheesy lines like that when he was three sheets to the wind. He probably wouldn’t have dared to ask about Rip’s leg injury if it hadn’t been for the alcohol either, but he’d been curious.

A lot of John’s questions had been answered by Rip’s explanation of how his leg had been injured. He’d known about the dead wife and child, of course, but not how terrible their deaths had been. Now he had their names, and he knew what “civil servant” meant in this context. Rip was probably MI6 or one of the other intelligence agencies. That fitted with the thousand-yard stare and the brain that could count cards even when it was four pints down plus a couple of shots of whiskey on top.

John had a thing for clever people. He liked people who could keep up with him because he wasn’t daft himself. He might not be quite up to Rip’s level, but he’d been a detective for years, outsmarting criminals and catching murderers. He and Rip had a few things in common, because Rip’s job was basically catching murderers too, albeit on a rather larger scale. He was already imagining Rip in a dinner jacket and bow tie, gun in hand, defeating the international crime bosses and terrorists at far flung sophisticated locations. Which would be followed by falling into bed with the nearest hot guy or girl, preferably guy, preferably him.

It was a fun daydream, but John knew it was just that. It was much more likely that Rip had spent his days in an office analysing data and then going home to his wife and son in the evenings. It was also very likely that he was not interested in John, and given that he’d been married, he was probably as straight as they came. John needed to stop thinking that Rip was anything but a regular customer in his teashop.

He scraped himself up off the floor, and went to find coffee and painkillers. It was raining outside, and the grey light illuminated the flat with gritty determination, but no real power. He boiled the kettle and made himself a grotty cup of instant coffee out of pure desperation and a lack of the ability to find the proper stuff. The milk in his fridge had gone off and he couldn’t be bothered to go downstairs to get the fresh stuff from the teashop. Black instant coffee was one of his most hated things, but it would have to do until he felt good enough to sort himself out something better.

He spent the next hour, after drinking his disappointing coffee, turning over the flat trying to find his missing cigarettes and failing. He did find his phone, and the phone charger, so he married the two up and put it on to charge. Zed’s message of the previous day came in and he couldn’t help but smile.

“I know you won’t read this, but Rip is coming to the pub tonight. Try not to screw it up.”

He had no idea if he’d screwed up or not. He suspected that Zed had been treating the entire night as an opportunity to set the two of them up, but she hadn’t quite known the complexity of the situation. Widower-to-terrorist-attack-meant-to-kill-him meet ex-copper-with-mental-health-issues. It was never going to go anywhere because neither of them had enough heart left to loan it out to someone else.

Then seven more messages came in as the phone synced to the network, and ten missed calls, all from the same number.

Message 1: “Call me. It's Jim.”

Message 2: “Again, it's Jim, call me. It’s urgent.”

Message 3: “Pick up your fucking phone, Constantine!”

Message 4: “Why is this the only number anyone has for you when you have no intention of answering it?”

Message 5: “Don’t make me track you down.”

Message 6: “It’s about the case, John.”

Message 7: “Okay, if this is the way you want to play it. I’ll be in that fucking one horse shithole that you ran away to next week.”

John almost dropped the phone.

“Fucking hell!” he said, to the empty flat. “Fucking shitting bloody bollocking hell!”

He kicked out at the couch. It was old, covered in a floral chintz, and had belonged to his Aunt Edie. It was also of thoroughly solid construction, and nearly broke his foot. That led to another round of swearing.

The messages were from Jim Corrigan and had been sent over the past two days. He was one of the coppers who had worked the Logue case with him. He hadn’t been there when John had arrested the bastard, but he’d helped with the initial interviews and the presentation to the CPS. If Corrigan was calling him then it wasn’t good news.

Why couldn’t he escape it? Why wouldn’t people just leave him alone to live his life? If it wasn’t the bloody papers after yet more gory details, then it was the fucking harpy lawyers trying to pick him to pieces. He knew that real serial killer cases were rare, which was why the “Black Magic Killer” had ended up as front-page news, but that had also meant huge amounts of scrutiny over how the case had been conducted. He’d been placed under a microscope at a time when he was scarcely holding things together. He’d made it through the trial, barely, by the skin of his teeth and with the help of several bottles of Glen Fiddich.

It was one of the worst times in his life, and Corrigan was coming all the way to Little Duckford to talk to him about it. His mind was whirring and flashing up images that he’d thought he’d buried a very long time ago. He grabbed the bottle that contained his medication and took it, dry. It might shut his brain up enough that he could at least go and open the teashop, anything was better than sitting around brooding. He hadn’t had a flashback for months and he had no intention of leaving himself open to one without a fight.

At least today was Saturday and the shop didn’t open on a Sunday, so he just had to make it through today. He and Zed needed one day off a week. He could call Corrigan back and tell him not to come. It could probably be solved over the phone anyway. He picked up the phone again and picked out Corrigan’s number. He dialled, the phone rang, and it went to voicemail. Great, now they were playing phone tag.

“This is Jim Corrigan’s phone. Leave a message,” said the answering machine.

The voice alone was nearly enough to drive him into the past, and memories of his office in the police station back in Liverpool. He could see the pictures of dead girls in folders on his desk. He’d been too slow, and not smart enough. Six girls had died on his patch, and he’d been forced to watch the final one bleed out on the floor.

He took a deep breath and spoke to the machine.

“It’s John. I got your messages. Whatever it is, I don’t want any part in it. I’m done. There’s no point in you coming all this way… So, don’t.”

He ended the call without any kind of farewell. John doubted that his former partner would be happy to have his weekend disrupted by a call back now, but it was better than him arriving on Monday. Which assumed that was enough to get Corrigan to drop it, but perhaps he’d have the sense to let sleeping dogs lie. John prayed that he would.

He went to shower and change.

As he descended the stairs, still feeling thoroughly crappy from the effects of the alcohol the night before, he could hear Zed getting the tables ready. He was late this morning.

“Morning,” she said, cheerily, and with a look that assessed his state in mere seconds. “You and Rip had fun last night without me then.”

John rolled his eyes. “He went home to his own bed, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Shame, you two are so cute together,” said Zed.

“I need to go out and get some fags,” said John, pointedly ignoring the idea that he and anyone might be cute. “Can you hold the fort here while I run to the corner shop?”

“Yeah, no problem. It usually starts out pretty slow on a Saturday,” said Zed.

John shrugged his trench coat on and headed out into the rain. The weather matched his mood perfectly. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and for a moment John had to lean against the side of a building because he thought he might throw up. His head hurt, despite the painkillers that he’d taken, and for a moment he thought he could smell blood in the air. He knew it wasn’t real, it wasn’t actually here at this moment in a rainy street in the Cotswolds, but his mind was remembering another time when he’d felt physically sickened by what he’d seen.

Then there was a hand on his shoulder and John jerked back, ready to hit whoever had touched him.

“It’s okay! It’s just me,” said Rip, who was stood there in his long brown duster with the collar up and an umbrella over his head. “You don’t look so good.”

“Sorry,” said John, relaxing. “I think we overdid it last night.”

“You don’t say,” said Rip, who now that John looked more closely, did seem a little pale. “I decided that a walk in the fresh air to buy a paper might help.”

“The weather _is_ lovely for the time of year,” said John, with pure, unadulterated sarcasm.

“Isn’t it just,” replied Rip, with a glance upwards. “I thought you’d be in the shop, opening up.”

“I think I dropped my cigarettes on the way home last night,” said John. “Couldn’t find them anywhere this morning.”

John decided that Rip had no right to look this good hung over. Apart from being a little paler than usual, there really wasn’t a hair out of place.

“Ah, probably my fault,” said Rip. “Most likely it was when you were letting me lean on you. I’ll buy you a new pack. Come on.”

Then Rip was striding towards the newsagent’s and John was having to dash to join him, despite his new friend’s pronounced limp. Rip positioned his umbrella so that it covered John too, and slowed his pace just a little to let him catch up.

“You don’t need to,” said John. “It could have been after I left you.”

“I need to buy a paper anyway,” replied Rip, with a shrug as they entered the shop.

He grabbed a copy of the local rag, The Cotswold Courier, and his hand stilled. John could tell that something was wrong, but it took him a moment to focus on the headline.

“Baby Delivered in Teashop”

There was a picture underneath of the teashop, taken from the outside, probably by someone stood across the road, but both Rip and John were visible through the windows.

“Teashop owner, John Constantine, and a mystery patron helped to deliver a healthy baby girl at the Mill House Teashop. Kendra Saunders wasn’t expecting to give birth for another four weeks when she went to meet friends at the local café,” the article opened. Further down the page the article finished with: “The baby is named Michaela Joan after the two men who helped with the birth.”

“Fuck,” said John.

“Quite,” said Rip.

“You made the front page!” said the smiling newsagent behind the counter, her name was Angie. “We haven’t had the front page for ages.”

John picked up two copies of the paper and dumped them on the counter, ignoring the enthusiastic attempt at conversation from the woman. Everyone knew everyone in this town.

“And a pack of Silkcut, love.”

He threw some crumpled bills onto the counter, but was stopped by a hand on his. The touch was unexpected enough that he nearly recoiled, his nerves still on edge.

“I said that I’d get them,” said Rip, and he handed over a crisp twenty pound note before John could object further.

“I won’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” said John, stuffing his own money back in his coat pocket as they left the shop.

He picked up the packet of cigarettes and opened the top, ignoring the gut-wrenching health warnings with the pictures of someone’s blackened lungs. Rip handed him one of the papers.

“Want one?” asked John, holding out the open pack.

Rip shook his head. “Last night’s cigarette was… a one off that I’m already in trouble for.”

John chuckled, and then sobered as he looked down at the paper. He lit his cigarette, taking advantage of the shelter provided by Rip’s umbrella. The rain wasn’t getting any less, and John’s cigarette smoke sank rapidly downwards after being exhaled. They wandered towards the teashop.

“You appearing in a picture, that’s probably not a good thing, right?” John asked.

“No, although it’s a small local paper and a rather poor picture,” said Rip. “It doesn’t mention my name, or at least not a name that would be easily traceable. Unless someone is looking for me very hard then I don’t think it will make much difference, and there are probably easier ways of finding out where I am.”

“You’re not worried about…?”

John wasn’t quite sure how to continue. He didn’t want to bring up what had happened to Rip and his family, but someone had tried to kill Rip. There was the possibility that they might try again.

“Savage had plenty of time to kill me while I was in a coma in the hospital,” said Rip. “I think he decided that he didn’t need to. I tried to track him down when I was back on my feet, but he’d disappeared. I doubt he even considers me a threat anymore. Why would he? I’m injured and I’ve basically been told to stay out of London until I can pass a fitness test. I don’t have any of the resources that I used to have.”

Rip stopped his tirade and took in a deep breath.

“I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t have told you any of this,” said Rip. “I would be in very deep trouble if anyone found out.”

“I thought you were joking!” John said, somewhat incredulously, “I mean, when you said that you’d have to kill me if you told me what you did for a living.”

“I was,” replied Rip, deadpan. “I didn’t say that other people wouldn’t do it for me.”

John gave him a look. “You’re hilarious.”

“Hungover,” said Rip. “I’m hungover. I am in need of your strongest black coffee and your greasiest of fried eggs. Would either of those things be possible?”

John could tell when the subject was being deliberately changed, he was a past master himself. He ducked his head in the affirmative.

“I think I could manage that,” he replied.

They reached the teashop, and John dropped his cigarette butt on the ground, stomping it out before he entered the shop. He held the door open for Rip, who closed his umbrella and headed towards his usual table, as Zed gave him a welcoming smile.

“Hey,” said John, “there’s no point in standing on ceremony. Come and join me in the kitchen.”

“Are you sure I’m worthy of such an honour?” asked Rip.

“Be like that and I just might rethink,” replied John, insincerely. “Zed, can you do me a favour and get us a large pot of black coffee?”

“Oh, it’s that kind of hangover?” she asked, eyeing up the two men, and John could see the smirk in her eyes.

“Very much so, I’m afraid,” said Rip.

“Yeah, love, and by the way, we made the paper,” said John and deposited the local paper on the countertop where Zed could see the picture and headline.

“Oh, that’s going to be great publicity,” said Zed, brightly.

“Just what I wanted,” said John. “Bunch of hacks. Why can’t they leave a man in peace?”

“Go on, I’ll bring the coffee to the kitchen for you,” she said, going over to the expensive coffee machine.

John took off his coat and hung it up on the hook on the back door to dry out a bit. He put on his apron, washed his hands, and prepared the eggs and bacon that he’d need for a fried breakfast. Rip opened the paper.

“You don’t like journalists much,” said Rip, as he read.

“Not that kind of journalist. They’re the kind who decide to use people’s private lives to sell papers,” said John. “I never gave them permission to poke around in _my_ life.”

Rip looked like he was about to say something and then thought better of it.

“I’m not much of a fan either,” he finally replied.

John had a feeling that Rip was keeping something from him, but that was his prerogative. He didn’t owe him any facts about his life, and he hadn’t even needed to tell him what he had. He supposed he had asked about his leg, but he hadn’t quite expected the story he got, despite the deductions that he’d already made about Rip. He’d have been less surprised if Rip had told him that he’d injured it in Basra or Kandahar or any of the other far flung places where wars were being fought this month.

“So, you got in trouble with your mum then?” asked John, while he cooked. “For the smoking?”

Zed brought the coffee to the serving hatch, and then went back to serve some customers.

“I’d forgotten the way smoke clings to clothes,” said Rip. “She was very disappointed in me, which is her strongest method of disapproval. She did say that she should thank you both for getting me out of the house though, even if you were, clearly, bad influences.”

John found himself chuckling again. “We should probably both thank Zed. She got us there.”

“I should get you to show me those card tricks sober,” said Rip. “I’m sure they work better when you have fine motor control.”

“Hey! I was doing fine until I drank your tequila. That’s when it all went pear shaped,” said John, with a wave of his spatula in Rip’s direction to emphasise his point. “You’re the one who was going to let perfectly good tequila go to waste.”

“I would never waste alcohol,” said Rip. “You were obviously willing to deal with it for me and replace it with something better.”

“I couldn’t let our guest drink something he wasn’t enjoying,” replied John, with a smirk. “So, is it just cards that you always win at or should we be avoiding other things too?”

“I’m quite good at Trivial Pursuit,” said Rip, turning a page of the paper.

 “Trivial Pursuit?” asked John, with a note of incredulity.

“That is what I said,” replied Rip

“Okay. No Trivial Pursuit,” said John. “What about Monopoly? Should we be avoiding that too?”

“The tactics of Monopoly are well known and elementary,” said Rip.

“Elementary, are they? I’ll have to remember that next time Zed is taking me to the cleaners,” said John, as he flipped an egg.

“Elementary doesn’t necessarily mean easy,” said Rip. “Also you do have to actually know what they are.”

“There isn’t a lot to do in Little Duckford. Maybe you should teach me,” said John.

The words were out of his mouth before he’d thought them through. He wasn’t supposed to be flirting with Rip. This was only going to end badly for him. He put the eggs onto plates, and added bacon to the pan, trying to concentrate on the cooking. After a moment’s hesitation he grabbed a couple of slices of bread and fried those off in the bacon fat. They both needed the grease this morning.

There was a pause before Rip replied, and John wondered if maybe he’d laid it on too thick with the widower.

“You’d have to return the favour,” said Rip. “That one handed shuffle you did, I want to know how you do that.”

“It’s simple manual dexterity,” said John, and he couldn’t stop himself from adding, “I’m good with my hands.”

The bacon had crisped up nicely, so he transferred that to the plate too, picked up the required cutlery and brought over the fried breakfast to his guest. He put the plate down in front of Rip.

Rip looked at John and then at the plate. John thought there might be the tinge of a blush on Rip’s cheeks. Rip coughed.

“I can… see that. Erm, thank you,” he said. “For Breakfast…”

“No problem,” said John, setting down his own plate and taking the seat beside Rip at the counter.

He’d made Rip uncomfortable. That much was obvious. He should definitely back off. He sipped his coffee, pushing the milk and sugar towards Rip. Thunder rolled in the distance, and they ate in silence for a moment as Rip looked over the paper. He appeared to be reading a story about a campaign to add traffic calming to the local housing estate, which made John wonder if he was really reading at all.

“You might want to wait before you head home,” said John, looking at the rain as he ate.

Rip turned to look out the window, but seemed to stop and study John.

“You have very nice eyes,” said Rip.

John blinked at Rip, pretty sure that his utter shock showed on his face. The phone rang in the shop. John frowned because no one should be calling him on a Saturday.

“John!” shouted Zed.

John sighed, giving Rip a pleading look. “Hold that thought.”

He got down from the stool and went through to the shop. Zed handed him the receiver of the phone that set behind the counter, next to the cash register.

“Yes, Mill House Teashop, John speaking,” he said, falling into his usual phone manner.

“Finally. I can’t believe I actually tracked you down,” said Jim Corrigan.

John’s stomach clenched, and he turned away from the shop, as if that would help with anything.

“Corrigan. Didn’t you read the message I sent?” he replied, tersely. “I told you that I don’t want anymore to do with that case. I don’t care what you want from me. I’m not doing it.”

“John, the CCRC are looking into Logue’s case,” said Jim. “They need you to go over your evidence.”

The CCRC was the Criminal Case Review Commission, which probably meant that Logue was hoping to appeal his case somehow. John had no idea how. They had literally caught him red handed. Memories leapt, unbidden, to the front of his mind and he clutched at the phone so hard that the plastic creaked under the strain.

His heart beat faster. He felt the panic rising.

“No, I’m not coming back,” he said in little more than a whisper, and slammed the phone down.

He looked around him at the tables that were slowly filling, and Zed moving between them taking orders or serving customers. It felt too close and like everyone was watching him. He couldn’t breathe and he could smell blood. There wasn’t enough oxygen in the air and he lost his ability to focus on the world. He propelled himself back into the kitchen and towards the back door. He pushed on the bar to open it and found himself standing in the back yard, being drenched by the worst storm they’d seen in months.

He turned and leaned against the wall, trying desperately to remember what he was supposed to do. He could hear the blood pumping in his ears and his heart hammering in his ribcage. He could hear Astra’s screams as she died, and see her limbs, broken apart like the parts of a rag doll. The blood had pooled on the floor and tainted the air with its distinctive smell of iron and lost life. The smell of his abject failure to save her.

A feeling of grim foreboding had settled over him and he was wondering if actually this was a heart attack. He wasn’t sure how he’d even tell the difference. If this carried on then he’d pass out in the back yard of the Mill House and Zed might find him a few hours later if he was lucky.

Then someone was calling his name, and the sky had mysteriously darkened. Something was blocking the worst of the rain from falling on him.

“John? You’re okay. It’s a panic attack,” said the voice, and he realised that it was Rip.

Rip took John’s hand and put it on his own chest. “Feel the rhythm of my breathing, try to match it. I’m going to breathe in for five and out for five, nice and slowly.”

Rip counted to five and John did his best to slow his breathing.

“Do you want to talk about it?” asked Rip.

John shook his head.

“Okay, maybe another time. Perhaps I should try a different tack. I was working in the garden with my mother the other day. There isn’t much to do at this time of year, just a bit of tidying up, but she happened to mention that she has a juniper tree. Of course my mind went to one place and one place only. I began wondering if it’s possible to brew one’s own gin, because as you know, juniper is the main flavouring. There are artisan distilleries popping up everywhere, so it surely should be something that a person could do. Apparently the botanicals are the secret to the different flavours and each gin is slightly different. Some are more herby and others more flowery. Mother has a lot of the traditional flavours in her garden. Maybe I should give it a try? What do you think?”

Rip had been trying to distract him, he knew that much but he seemed to be expecting an answer. John realised that he was cold and wet, soaked in fact, and yes, his breathing was approaching something more normal, so he probably was able to answer.

“Gin’s good,” was all he could manage.

“It is, isn’t it? Let’s get you inside,” said Rip, not really giving John a moment to say no. His tone suggested that this was all routine, and ignored that they were two blokes stood in a thunderstorm.

John realised that it was Rip’s coat that he’d held over their head, as he wrapped it around them and moved John to the door. He was shivering both from cold and from the adrenaline that was leaving him rapidly. His body had finally recognised that it didn’t need to run anywhere or fight anything. His breathing was still ragged but not as rapid as it had been.

Rip pushed the door open and got John inside, pulling it shut behind them. John felt somewhat useless. His hands were shaking and refusing to obey commands, and he wrapped his arms around his body in order to try to warm himself back up. Rip had now draped the coat over John’s shoulders, leaving himself with a khaki green jacket over a white shirt. Rip seemed to like layers.

“Thank you,” John said, tiredly. “For the coat.”

They both knew that he wasn’t just thanking Rip for shielding him from the rain, or at least he hoped they did, because he wasn’t spelling it out. Ex-coppers weren’t supposed to have panic attacks, and they definitely weren’t supposed to need to be talked down from them, or distracted from them.

Zed came into the kitchen and saw her bedraggled boss. The set of her shoulders let John know that she wasn’t exactly pleased with him.

“You idiot,” she said, although her tone was softer than expected. “Panic attack?”

It wasn’t John’s first in her presence, and he’d had to confess to her that he got them not long after she’d started working at the shop. That time it had been a knife that had set him off, but he’d got better since then and he had less triggers.

He nodded in answer to Zed’s question. He didn’t look at Rip to see what he was making of all this.

“You’re soaked,” said Zed.

“And cold,” said Rip, “we need to get you some dry clothes and warm you up.”

“Take him upstairs,” said Zed, “I’ll hold the fort here. The rain’s keeping everyone away today so it’s pretty quiet.”

“I’m okay,” said John, ignoring the slight tremor to his voice, and the puddle he was leaving on the floor.

“Sure you are,” said Zed. “Go on. Sort yourself out. Don’t let him come back until he can speak in sentences of more than two words.”

Rip nodded. “Of course. You’d better show me the way.”

John sighed with a shake of his head, apparently neither Zed nor Rip were going to just leave him to it.

“This way,” he said, and showed Rip towards the stairs and up into the flat above the shop.

John had never bothered with redecorating the flat because he hadn’t seen the point. His aunt’s taste wasn’t his, there were too many frills on everything, but it was clean and in good repair. So far the only person who had even seen the flat apart from John was Zed. He headed straight through the lounge and into the bedroom. Rip lingered in the lounge, near the door of the bedroom.

“It was the phone call, wasn’t it?” asked Rip, leaning in the doorway.

John handed him his coat back, and then he tried to undo cold buttons with damp fingers. He glanced at Rip, not wanting to meet his eyes and nodded, slowly. The buttons were refusing to come open and his tie was getting in the way.

Rip sighed, pushed himself off from the doorframe, and without a word, moved John’s ineffective hands out of the way. His fingers were warm, hot almost, as they brushed against John’s hands. He pulled the tie undone, throwing it on the bed. Then started on John’s shirt buttons and he would have probably been a little turned on if he hadn’t felt so utterly worn out and useless. Rip finished up the last of buttons and moved away again, clearly having no intention of making this seem like anything more than giving John some necessary help.

“Who was on the phone?” asked Rip, almost gently.

Then Rip turned away so that he was giving John some privacy while he peeled off his damp things. John felt a smile of amusement grace his lips at Rip’s manners. It was a brief moment though as he was brought back to his memory of the phone call, because Rip was waiting for an answer to his question.

“It was my old partner,” he said, offering nothing more.

He took off the wet shirt and dropped it on the bed. He grabbed a towel from the back of a chair where he’d slung it earlier this morning and used it to dry his hair. Then he went to the cupboard and pulled out a t-shirt and trousers. He needed to do some washing if the large pile on the floor was any indication.

“If you want to talk then I’d be prepared to listen,” said Rip.

“It’s not something I’d inflict on you. You’ve got enough on your plate,” said John, changing into the new pair of dry trousers. “You can turn around now. And I’d rather talk about you running to my aid.”

Rip turned, and gave John an assessing glare as he finished towelling off his hair. John was trying as hard as he could to get his nerves under control and appear back to normal. The shivers that still ran through his cold body wouldn’t be stilled though.

“It was hardly that. You left in a hurry and without your coat,” said Rip. “I was concerned.”

“I was fine,” said John, although he knew that was a lie.

“You weren’t fine, and now you’re deflecting,” said Rip.

“Yes, want to help me with that?” he asked, brazenly. He felt like he’d run a marathon. Panic attacks always took it out of him and left him wrung out like a limp tea towel.

“It’s not good to ignore your problems,” said Rip.

“Really? It’s worked fine so far,” said John, sitting down on the bed.

Rip shook his head in a despairing manner and dropped down to sit on the bed beside John.

“It didn’t look like it was working earlier,” said Rip.

“Okay, maybe it hasn’t worked all the time,” admitted John. “What can I say? I’m a work in progress.”

“As are we all,” replied Rip, just a little cryptically.

John shifted so that his shoulder touched Rip’s. The other man didn’t move away.

“You don’t have to stay with me,” said John.

“I have nowhere else to be,” Rip said.

“Are you really thinking of making your own gin, or did you just come up with that to distract me?”

Rip shrugged. “Mainly to distract you, but my mother does have a juniper tree in her garden that I was asked to prune the other day.”

“I’ve heard more stupid ideas,” said John.

“Something to ponder for a later date then,” said Rip. “I certainly enjoy a gin and tonic in the summer months.”

John smiled. “I like you. Good taste in booze.”

“Thank you,” said Rip, and he paused, significantly. John could tell that he wanted to say something, but he wasn’t sure if he should.

“Just spit it out. Whatever you have to say, say it.”

“I know about Logue,” said Rip. “I, er, looked you up.”

John turned towards Rip. “You looked me up?” he asked, with disbelief.

Rip sighed. “It’s a bad habit. When you’re in my line of work, you tend to have a suspicious mind.”

John searched his pocket for his cigarettes, and then remembered that they were downstairs in his coat.

“What did your suspicious mind get you then?” he asked, somewhat annoyed. Rip had no right to be poking around, but then it was all out there to be found if someone knew where to look.

“You arrested Alex Logue for the murder of six teenage girls. It was a difficult case. He made it personal,” said Rip.

“And if you got that far then you got the rest too,” said John, and collapsed backwards on the bed. “Shit.”

“The only thing I got was that you apprehended a murderer and it affected you deeply,” said Rip. “I doubt anyone could have gone through what you did and remained sane.”

“I didn’t, did I?” John said. “I broke into little pieces, spent months in the loony bin, and then I ran away. _I ran away_. That’s what Corrigan said, and he was right.”

“You caught a killer, John, which is more that I can say about the man who murdered my wife and son,” said Rip. “But you’re only human, and you cared, which is why it hurt.”

“It hurt because I let him get to me and play with my head. I was weak,” said John.

“Caring isn’t weakness, it’s strength,” said Rip, as if it was one of the great truths of the universe.

“Doesn’t feel like it,” said John, staring up at the ceiling.

“I know,” said Rip. “But I regard you more highly because of it.”

“You really are something else,” said John, turning his head to give Rip a closer examination. “You’re here telling _me_ to stay positive.”

“It’s usually easier to offer advice than to take it oneself,” replied Rip, wistfully. “All we can both do is try to move forwards. Now, if you’re feeling better then perhaps we should consider asking Zed to make us a fresh pot of coffee.”

“Good idea,” said John. “I could do with the caffeine and a smoke.”

He had briefly been reminded of Rip’s words the previous night: he would get the man who murdered his wife and child or die trying. John found himself even more invested in making sure that the dying bit didn’t happen, perhaps because he really wanted to ask if Rip had meant to flirt with him earlier, but this probably wasn’t the moment. Hopefully they’d get to have a conversation at some point without John having a panic attack in the middle next time.

The two of them headed back down the stairs to finish their abandoned breakfast, and John cursed his bad luck that Corrigan had called when he did. He still hadn’t resolved that either. He didn’t think that Jim would take “go away” for an answer. The CCRC was a serious matter and he probably couldn’t avoid it. But right now, all he had to worry about was cooking for the lunch time rush and wondering whether telling someone that they had nice eyes was actually flirting. That was what he was going to focus on, and it would keep his mind off other things.


	4. Gideon

The teashop didn’t open on Sunday, so there was no obvious opportunity for Rip to see John again until the start of the next week. The man really did intrigue him, and helping him to deal with the panic attack had given him further insights into his new friend’s personality and past. It had confirmed that John had experienced a mental health episode, and that he was somewhat ashamed of it. Rip certainly wasn’t going to judge him for crumbling under extreme circumstances, it was probably only Gideon’s intervention that had prevented him from being in a similar position. The fact that John had recovered and was now well enough to run a business suggested that he was tenacious and strong, character traits that Rip admired.

John’s flat had looked like he hadn’t changed much about it since his aunt had inhabited it. It had been furnished with floral curtains, paisley patterned carpets that Rip was pretty sure went out of style in the 70s and a large overstuffed chintz covered sofa. There were at least three ashtrays in every room, and the place had smelled of stale cigarettes. It wasn’t quite what Rip had been expecting but he supposed it made sense. John didn’t really seem to care about where he lived, as long as it wasn’t Liverpool.

The weather remained terrible all weekend, and time seemed to drag. He had missed his usual foray into town for his walk, but he’d had no excuse with the teashop being closed, and he quietly had to admit to himself that he had also missed John. It was beginning to be more about seeing the teashop owner than it was about the walk and the tea. He was still working out how to feel about that, and when Monday came around, still wet and gloomy, his leg was very uncooperative.

“You’ve overdone it, again,” said his mother, regarding him with disapproval. “I have told you time and again to stick to the exercise routine.”

“Saying “I told you so” is not helpful, Mother,” said Rip, as he took more painkillers with a gulp of water.

These were the stronger ones that made him drowsy and he hated taking. He’d already delayed his walk in the hopes that he’d be feeling up to heading into town later, but apparently that wasn’t going to be happening.

“You can’t go out if you’re in pain,” said Mary. “And Gideon is arriving this afternoon, why don’t you give it a miss today.”

Rip let out a long sigh. “I don’t want to sit around doing nothing. I need my leg to heal. I need to get back to work.”

Mary sat on the arm of the chair, beside her son and reached an arm around his shoulders. Rip leaned into the embrace.

“You can’t rush this,” said his mother. “It takes time to heal.”

“I have given it time,” said Rip. “I’m not getting any better.”

“I wasn’t just meaning the physical, Michael,” said Mary. “You need to grieve. You’re still punishing yourself for not being in that car too.”

“I should have been. It was me that he wanted to kill,” said Rip, feeling the sense of despair that he always felt when he talked about the death of his family.

It would have been better if he had been the one to die. Not that he would have wished this feeling on Miranda and Jonas, but it was better than being dead. It wasn’t the first time he’d said something like this to his mother, and he already knew what she thought of it.

“You can’t think like that, darling,” said Mary. “They wouldn’t want you to.”

“I know. Some days are just harder than others,” said Rip.

He’d often thought about finishing the job that Vandal Savage started in the days after his release from hospital, when all he had wanted was to join his beloved wife and son. Gideon had made sure that didn’t happen though. She’d been his rock, seeing what he was doing with his obsessive search for Savage, and how unhealthy it had become. That was why she’d put her foot down and brought him to Mary, whilst making sure that the IEA wiped his codes and put him on indefinite sick leave.

Mary squeezed his shoulder, bringing him out of his thoughts. “I’ll make us some tea. It may not be as good as the teashop, but you don’t have to walk anywhere to get it.”

Mary stood and started towards the kitchen. Rip’s phone buzzed to let him know that a text message had come in.

It was from Zed, and said:

_You’re late. Are you okay?_

It was followed by a second message:

_John’s in a foul mood. I think he’s worried about you._

And a third:

_Okay, he’s asking if I’m texting you now. Definitely worried._

Rip read the messages, and he felt a little better somehow. John was worried about him, and for reasons that he didn’t really understand that made him happier, not because John was worried, but more that he cared enough to _be_ worried.

“You’re suddenly very popular,” said Mary.

“It’s just Zed. The teashop has noted my absence,” said Rip.

“It’s good that at least you’re making some friends in the town,” said Mary, as she went into the kitchen.

Rip frowned at that. He hadn’t really identified Zed and John as friends, but what else should he call them. He liked John, perhaps in a way that wasn’t indicative of friendship. He’d even indulged in a tiny amount of flirting which was very unlike him. It had been some time since he’d felt any kind of attraction towards a man, but he’d always known that he was bisexual. He just hadn’t ever really identified that way, because he’d never met a man that he’d felt anything more than brief interest in.

He had joined the Navy in 2002, and the UK military had been accepting of all sexualities since 1999, in law at least. In practice, discrimination was still present and he had no wish to hamper his chances to further his career. He’d met Miranda and she definitely seemed to be his one and only, so who was to even know? Perhaps that had been cowardly of him and he should have stood up to fight for gay rights with his LGBTQIA peers, but he’d been too busy fighting terrorists and saving the world to look so close to home for battles.

He looked at the text messages. He typed out a reply.

_I’m fine, just overdid the exercise and my leg is complaining. Mother has declared this a rest day._

A reply came back, this time from a new number.

_Do you need anything? John_

Ah, apparently the teashop owner had finally found and charged his phone, and Zed had given him his number. Rip smiled. He saved the number to his phone and replied.

_I have taken the good painkillers. I will most likely sleep and feel better by this evening._

Then he typed another message.

_I will see you tomorrow, without fail. Please, be nice to Zed._

The reply came back swiftly.

_I’m always nice to Zed. Take care of yourself, mate._

Rip didn’t think that required a reply, so he put the phone down on the table again. He could hear his mother making the tea in the other room, and Gideon would be arriving in a few hours. The painkillers were already making him sleepy and less careworn. Things could be much worse.

***

Gideon loved the teashop. Rip could see it on her face and by the way she regarded the interior décor of the Mill House with approval as they entered. Despite her expertise with computers and everything technological, she loved history. It was one of the things that she and Rip had bonded over early in their acquaintance, and military history in particular was an interest that they shared.

They made their first foray into town the morning after Gideon had arrived. She had already spent an evening updating Rip on the state of repair of the Waverider, the new members of the crew that had joined the boat, and Lt Commander Sara Lance’s latest romance, which had been entirely Gideon’s fault for introducing them. Rip had been pleasantly surprised by that news because he also knew Sara’s new girlfriend, as he’d been working with Ava Sharpe for five years when the attack had happened. Ava currently had his job at the International Enforcement Agency, which was supposedly temporary, but Rip was less certain every day about that.

Mary had banned any serious talk of work, by which he knew she meant Vandal Savage, stating that Rip was supposed to be recovering. Gideon had mouthed “later” to him, and Rip knew he’d have to get the two of them out of the house to discuss whatever Gideon had brought him. They had moved on to discussions of what Gideon had planned for the rest of her shore leave. Mostly it was visiting Rip, but she also had plans to go to the Picasso exhibition in London and do a lot of the mundane tasks that needed to be done at home. She had a small flat in London that she kept for when she was home, which wasn’t that often at the moment. Captaining a vessel was an all-consuming vocation, and there was very little down time.

“This is delightful,” said Gideon, as they sat down at his usual table. “Is this reserved for us?” She was wearing a pair of dark jeans and a scoop neck red top with a black fitted leather jacket. She looked rather too sophisticated for Little Duckford.

“Yes, the owner has been very kind to me,” said Rip, and noted that John was already on his way to their table. He seemed to make a point of being the one to serve him whenever he was in, and this was something that had been the case for a few visits now.

Rip propped his cane up against the wall, his leg had protested a little when he got up this morning, so it was needed. He would have preferred to have left it at home because it still annoyed him that he had to use it some days.

“Hello there,” John said, grinning a little tentatively.

John had a genuine smile, Rip usually got that one now, and then there was this one that he reserved for other customers. Rip had only picked that up from watching him over the last couple of weeks, and he would guess Gideon’s presence had brought the less genuine smile out again.

“You’re feeling better then?” John asked.

“Much, thank you,” said Rip, and John gave him an approving nod.

“You didn’t say you were bringing a friend with you,” John continued, “I’d have put my best apron on if I’d known. I’m John, the owner.” He offered Gideon his hand to shake, as he shamelessly checked her out.

“Gideon,” she said, and didn’t appear particularly impressed by him, but then John wasn’t exactly being well behaved. She rather grudgingly shook his hand.

Rip suppressed a sigh. He had hoped that John’s first impression would be better, and that his two friends might get on.

“Gideon? Isn’t that usually a bloke’s name?”

“Not in this case,” replied Gideon, already showing some offence. “I heard that your tea is excellent.”

“You heard correctly. You look like a lapsang souchong kind of girl, but we’ve got a lot to choose from. Also you picked the right day to come in because we’ve got the first batch of new cakes in today. Rip can recommend the best ones, he helped with the tasting.”

“Indeed,” said Rip. “I think we will probably want two pieces of the chocolate fudge cake, and I’ll have my usual tea… Gideon?”

Gideon was making a show of perusing the menu.

“Gunpowder,” said Gideon, “I’ll have a pot of the gunpowder, and yes, the chocolate fudge cake.”

John nodded. “Coming right up.”

He headed away to the counter to make the tea and get the cake.

“Play nice, Gideon. You love lapsang,” said Rip.

“I don’t like people making assumptions about me,” she said. “And he called me a girl.”

“Well, he doesn’t know you like I do,” said Rip, who was well aware that Gideon would make John pay for that one somehow.

He didn’t think that John meant it as a slight, it was much more likely that he just hadn’t thought about the turn of phrase. Gideon was used to dealing with far worse. You didn’t become a female Commander in the British Navy without having to deal with a fair amount of sexism, although it was less than it had once been. Rip had never put up with it under his command, and he and Gideon had become an unbeatable partnership because he’d been willing to listen to her ideas when others had dismissed them. She’d proven herself time and again, which was why she now had command of the Waverider.

Rip leaned back in the chair and looked at his friend and former SIC. He knew Gideon very well, and she hadn’t been relaxed since she had arrived. She was now scanning the room in the same manner that Rip usually did; counting the exits and assessing the threats.

“Any identified threats?” he asked, semi-conversationally as if it wasn’t at all a big deal.

“None, Captain,” she replied, sounding as if she was on autopilot. “Although my assessment would indicate that the most dangerous man in the room, excluding ourselves, is your new friend, who has definitely had some kind of combat training.”

“Ex-policeman,” said Rip. “He hasn’t mentioned firearms training, but it wouldn’t surprise me.”

Gideon had very sharp eyes. If she ever decided to give up command of the Waverider then he would happily welcome her into the IEA. She’d be an asset as an agent, and he had no doubt about that. Which assumed that he ever managed to return to his old job, and could therefore offer Gideon one.

“Also the waitress is… interesting,” said Gideon.

“Zed? I doubt she’s had any sort of training,” said Rip. “She’s an art student.”

“No, not training but she is unusually good at reading people,” said Gideon. “It’s a good trait for a waitress, but I’m willing to bet that Zed isn’t her real name.”

“Seems like a sound bet,” replied Rip. “However, she is allowed to change her name, and I know she didn’t get along with her parents.”

“Of course, but I’m always slightly paranoid. I wish you’d let me conduct a proper background check for you,” said Gideon. “On both of them.”

“I did look into John’s past,” said Rip, slightly guiltily. “It wasn’t particularly well hidden, and it involved him being part of an investigation into a serial killer. I understand that it was a difficult time, so I’d appreciate it if you left that one alone. Zed too. No one knows that I’m here, or that I was even intending to come here given the way that you whisked me out of London.”

“That doesn’t mean that no one is looking for you,” replied Gideon. “And you haven’t exactly been keeping a low profile, what with delivering babies and making headlines.”

“I suppose I should have just let the poor woman manage on her own,” said Rip, with annoyance.

“You could have let your new friends deal with it. It would have been better than drawing attention to yourself,” said Gideon.

“We’ve been over this before, Gideon,” said Rip. “If Savage had wanted me dead then I’d be dead.”

“I’m not so sure,” said Gideon. “You had security provided by IEA at the hospital, and later. He might just have been biding his time, and waiting for you to let your guard down.”

John returned with their tea at that moment, and the conversation stopped while someone else was present. Gideon probably would be very disappointed in him if she found out that John knew at least some of the story of why he was here. He had been drunk at the time though and he had desperately needed to talk to someone because his grief continued to be like a hole, ripped in him, and jagged edged with the need to continue to hurt him. Telling John had actually helped him to assemble his thoughts a little and also make him realise that he couldn’t leave the search for Savage much longer.

John set down the tray and placed everything from it on the table.

“Here we go. Two pieces of chocolate cake, English breakfast tea for Rip and gunpowder for Gideon.”

The two teapots had slightly different patterns on them, but both were of winding blue flowers, with the cups matching each pot. He finished up by putting the two small sand timers on the table, one a little larger than the other.

“Three-minute timer and five-minute timer. Three for the gunpowder, five for the English breakfast. If you’d like more hot water, then Zed can bring you some over.”

“I don’t usually get a timer,” said Rip, a touch of false hurt in his tone.

“That’s because you’re normally too dull to need one, but given that Gideon has gone for the exotic, I thought you might want to keep track. And I didn’t like to play favourites,” said John.

“Of course not,” said Rip. “I should bring Gideon in more often if it gets me better service.”

“I’m here for several days, Captain. We can always visit again,” said Gideon, as she took the fork that was on the side of the plate and dug into her chocolate cake.

Rip tried not to wince as Gideon used his rank. Perhaps, he hoped, John hadn’t caught it, but no such luck. John was far too sharp for that.

“Captain?” asked John, with interest. “You didn’t tell me that you’re a Captain. What service?”

“Navy,” replied Rip. “Officially, I’m discharged. Gideon is the only one who still uses my rank.”

John was about to ask a follow-up question, but Gideon gave a groan of utter happiness, and put a hand over Rip’s. He could not fail to notice the frown that crossed John’s face at this easy and familiar contact, a frown that was rapidly hidden. He wondered if Gideon had deliberately decided to cause a distraction, because John was curious and curiosity was not a good thing when it came to their line of work.

“Why didn’t you tell me that this place had chocolate cake that is this amazing?”

“It didn’t until today,” say Rip.

“I’ll leave you to it,” said John, and just like that he was gone. Rip got the distinct impression that he wasn’t pleased with him and he wondered what he’d done.

“I may actually forgive him the earlier slight,” said Gideon. “This cake is really quite good. Now, where was I?”

Rip’s eyes were following John and only half listening to Gideon. He seemed unusually uptight and his manner was a little more forced than normal. Something was going on there, but Rip couldn’t really stop him and ask if he was doing okay at the moment.

“No one is going to try to kill me,” he said.

“I know you’d like to believe that, but Ava received an analysis report two weeks ago that suggested Savage is back on the map again,” said Gideon, taking a second forkful of the cake, and savouring it in a very un-ladylike manner.

“I’m sorry, what?” asked Rip, pulled back to Gideon’s words. “Didn’t I leave specific instructions that I should be notified when Savage resurfaced?”

“You did. Which is why I’m here,” said Gideon.

“I expected a phone call, Commander!” said Rip, tersely, his voice low and dangerous. “The moment it happened!”

“That wasn’t the agreement. You’re currently on medical leave, so you’re lucky that I’m telling you anything,” said Gideon, unashamed. “Everyone has agreed that it isn’t good for your health to be too involved in this.”

“I am your Captain,” spat Rip, as he stirred his tea with more vigour than was strictly necessary. “Don’t you think I should be the one to decide what information I receive?”

“You _were_ my Captain,” said Gideon. “Do I need to remind you that you were spending more time drinking than looking for Savage? You were taking medication and drinking on top of it. That is pure idiocy of the highest order, and that is what chasing Savage did to you.”

“I have been going to the counselling that you arranged for me. I would hope that I’m somewhat better now,” said Rip, adding a lump of sugar to his cup.

“Only because Mary doesn’t allow alcohol in her house at the moment,” said Gideon.

“That isn’t fair,” said Rip, actually a little hurt by her words.

“I have never pulled my punches, Captain,” said Gideon.

Rip said nothing for a moment and took a deep breath. Gideon might have a point, he had to admit. He had drunk too much and he’d let the search become his entire existence. He sipped his tea.

“I _will_ get him,” said Rip. “But I do have a bit more perspective now and I don’t need you to protect me. So, tell me, what do we know?”

Gideon opened her bag and took out a file. It was a dark red in colour and had the words “Clearance Level 3 or Higher” stamped on the edge.

“We caught up with him again in Iran. We know that he’s brokering an arms deal, possibly chemical weapons, probably for various terrorist groups in the area. Early last week, Ava got word that he was coming to the UK. What we can’t figure out is, why? Chemical weapons are hard to smuggle at the best of times, but they’re a hell of a lot easier in countries without the tight controls that the UK has.”

“So, he wants something only available here,” surmised Rip. “Precursor chemicals perhaps?”

“Almost everything is controlled, and anything that isn’t, well, as previously stated it would be easier and probably cheaper to get elsewhere,” said Gideon.

She placed the file on the table and opened it to reveal a picture of Vandal Savage. It was a little out of focus. Rip picked it up, trying not to remember all of the failures that he had accumulated that were associated with this man. Fingers clamped around his heart and squeezed as he examined the contents, but he took a deep breath and willed the sensation away. He would not collapse into an emotional wreck in the middle of the Mill House.

He took a moment to peruse the contents, going over everything carefully and ignoring his emotions. He needed to look at this objectively and to analyse it as he’d been trained.

“I need more data,” said Rip, leafing through the file that seemed to contain very little in the way of actual information. “This isn’t anywhere near enough. I need full surveillance records and associates and… more than a blurry picture of him and a copy of his boarding pass.”

“I thought you’d say that. Ava’s team have been monitoring all Savage’s communications. They cloned his phone when he entered the country and have been intercepting his messages and calls. However, he’s using a code and they can’t crack it.” Gideon reached into her bag and took out a USB stick. “It’s all on there.”

“So, you’re giving me an uncrackable code to keep me occupied while Ava and the team do the real work,” said Rip, a little annoyed, although he accepted the USB stick. He examined it as if he could just look at it and get it to unlock the secrets it held.

“No,” said Gideon. “I don’t believe it’s uncrackable, Savage needs something quick and dirty that any of his contacts could use. And I shouldn’t have even brought you this. If Ava finds out then she’ll probably ground me _and_ the Waverider.”

Rip groaned. “You cannot come all this way, tell me that we have a lead and then refuse to let me in on the operation properly.”

“You have to leave it to Ava and her team. You trained her. You know that she can do the job,” said Gideon.

“I suppose so,” said Rip, as he pocketed the USB drive. “I just think that she needs to learn to listen to her gut more sometimes and could use a little more creativity in her techniques.”

“Are you really suggesting that she should stick to the rules less? I’m sure I remember being called to the Captain’s office for at least one or two infringements of the rules,” Gideon reminded him.

“I think it’s rather different when the rules in question are maritime law,” said Rip, attacking his own cake.

“We’re a covert submarine. Half the time we’re breaking the law just by being where we are,” hissed Gideon.

Rip was a little surprised by her vehemence. Apparently, this was a sore point, and perhaps something that she’d had to fight her corner on recently if they’d met a Russian sub during their last outing. He would have liked to ask her what exactly had happened, but secrecy meant that she couldn’t tell him even if she’d wanted to. He had retained a certain level of clearance, but that didn’t give him unfettered access to the Waverider’s missions.

“You’re the Captain now, so it’s entirely up to you what rules you follow and which you don’t,” said Rip.

“I have one word for you: Zanzibar,” said Gideon, finally noticing that three minutes had passed and removing the leaves from her tea. Rip noted that they were enclosed in a mesh ball which allowed the tea to infuse the water properly.

“All of my decisions were entirely rational that day,” said Rip.

“Rational doesn’t mean lawful,” said Gideon. “Jax still talks about that and how awesome it was.”

“If you’d had a better way to deal with those pirates then I’m sure you would have told me,” said Rip. “You’re trying to distract me. It won’t work.”

“Ava won’t give you the surveillance data,” said Gideon. “That’s all there is to it. I knew I shouldn’t have given you anything. I’m probably just feeding an unhealthy obsession.”

Rip gave Gideon a disappointed stare and took a long drink of his tea.

“Very well, I suppose something is better than nothing. I will work with what you have given me,” said Rip.

“Good,” said Gideon. “I was hoping you’d see it that way. Honestly, I think Ava could use the help.”

***

“Who’s that with Rip?” asked Zed, as she brought some dirty crockery into the kitchen.

“She said her name’s Gideon. I didn’t get any more than that,” replied John, as he washed a teapot. “She calls Rip “Captain”.”

“Captain?”

“Yeah, apparently he was in the Navy, so I guess that means she was too,” said John.

The dishes in the sink were being washed within inches of their life. He wasn’t quite sure why he was annoyed, but he was. There was something about the woman sat with Rip that he didn’t like, perhaps it was the easy way that she touched Rip, as if they were an old married couple. He definitely found her interesting and he smiled when she made jokes.

“Did you ask Rip if he wanted to come out tonight?”

“No, I did not,” said John. “It looks like he’s occupied.”

Zed was looking at him very strangely.

“Are you jealous?” she asked, with shocked amusement.

“No,” said John, scrubbing at another teapot. He stopped and glared at Zed. “Okay, yes. Maybe a little. But he’s obviously straight. Would you stop trying to see something that isn’t there and set us up.”

Zed said something in Spanish that sounded like it might have been an annoyed insult, but given that he didn’t speak the language, that was only a guess.

“Have you seen the way he looks at you?” asked Zed.

John laughed. “No, I have not. How exactly does he look at me?”

Zed grinned at him. “Like he’s interested. He’s not straight.”

John rolled his eyes. “Haven’t you got work to do?”

She laughed at him. She actually laughed at him, and John really didn’t know what to do with that. Then she said something else in Spanish that sounded uncomplimentary and was about to leave him to his dishwashing when the phone rang.

“If it’s for me, I’m not here,” said John.

“And if it’s one of our suppliers?” asked Zed.

“Take a message,” said John.

“You can’t hide forever, John,” said Zed, and went to answer the phone. “And we can’t run the teashop with you skulking in the kitchen.”

The kitchen door swung shut behind Zed.

“I’m not skulking,” said John to the empty room. Even he didn’t believe that.

He had washing up to do, and the teapots only really got clean if they were done by hand. The rest could go into the dishwasher. He still hadn’t done the accounts and he’d been putting them off for over a week now. It would only get worse the longer he left it, like a lot of things in his life at the moment.

He finished washing the teapot and put it on the rack to dry. He wiped his hands down on the towel. The teashop was getting busier and Zed would need his help. She was absolutely right that he couldn’t hide in the kitchen, not if he wanted to actually get his customers served in a decent amount of time. The business traded on its good reputation. One bad review on Yelp could lose them a lot of customers.

He headed out of the kitchen, and Zed, still on the phone, nodded in the direction of a group who had menus and probably needed their order taking. He went over to them to see if they were ready to order and they asked for a couple more minutes to make up their minds. He noticed that Rip and Gideon were deep in discussion, but their cake was finished and the teacups empty. They’d been there for a while, so they probably had finished their tea by now. He went to the back of the room, notebook in hand.

“Can I get you anything else?” asked John.

“I think we’re done,” said Rip. “So if we could have the bill, we’ll free up the table for you.”

John gave him a small smile. “No hurry. I’ll get your bill.” He turned to go and then made a decision. He turned back. “Would you like to come over tonight for that game of Monopoly we were talking about? Zed’s class got cancelled and she’s at a loose end. You could teach me those tactics you mentioned, assuming you and Gideon haven’t got anything better to do.”

Rip hesitated in his reply, looking down at the red folder on the table, but then Gideon answered for him.

“I don’t believe we have anything on,” said Gideon. “At least nothing that can’t be left for a night.”

“Gideon, we should really check with my mother before we agree,” said Rip, with a sigh.

“Nonsense, she told us that she’s got her book club tonight, remember?” said Gideon.

Rip gave his friend a look that John couldn’t interpret.

“If you don’t want to…” John began, wondering why he’d suggested it in the first place. Zed was probably wrong about Rip being interested in him, and he should have listened to his gut.

“No, no,” said Rip, quickly. “I’d very much like to. It’s just that Gideon brought some work for me to do from the London office. I expect it could wait another day though.”

John nodded. That made much more sense, especially since he sort of knew what “the London office” was code for. Basically, Rip had spy stuff to do, probably something world saving, and Monopoly just wasn’t that important. Although if Rip thought it could wait then maybe it wasn’t as urgent as John was imagining.

“Maybe Mr Constantine would like to come to the cottage?” suggested Gideon, with a slight twinkle in her eye.

Rip paused, giving her another unreadable look before apparently deciding that this might be a good idea.

“I should really pay you back for breakfast the other day,” said Rip. “Perhaps you and Zed would like to bring the Monopoly board over to the cottage?”

John hesitated a moment, a little surprised by the invitation.

“Uh, okay, I’m sure Zed would like that,” said John.

“8pm?” suggested Rip.

“Yeah, sounds good,” said John, wondering if going to the very nice cottage was really a good idea already.

Rip gave him a curt nod in reply. “I am already looking forwards to it.”

John smiled as he walked back towards Zed.

“He’s coming over then?” she asked, waving at Rip and Gideon as they waited for the bill.

“He invited us over to his,” said John, trying hard not to grin. “Told me to bring the Monopoly board.”

Then suddenly his grin slipped. The Monopoly set had been part of his Aunt’s board games collection, old and dusty when he and Zed had found it in the cupboard. They had been bored and drunk one evening a few months ago and had decided to play Monopoly to pass the time. Zed had been wiping the floor with him when John had spilt a bottle of whisky on the board. They had declared that rain had stopped play and it was unsalvageable. He had no idea what he’d done with the rest of the set because they’d spent the remainder of the evening getting very drunk.

“Oh fuck, I need to find a new Monopoly set.” Rip was going to think he was a total idiot.

Zed picked up Rip’s bill and took it to his table, grinning in an unusually evil manner. She was laughing at him again.


	5. Rip and John

Rip and Gideon sat down in the front room of his mother’s cottage. Mary had set a fire in the grate when they got home and it now burned warmly. Gideon’s laptop was on the table, and the two of them were currently shoulder to shoulder poring over the data displayed. His mother would have been quite annoyed if she’d discovered what they were looking at, but they’d told her that Gideon had brought some personnel files that she wanted Rip’s opinion on. It was plausible enough as an excuse that it shouldn’t make Mary suspicious.

On the screen were several columns of numbers. They seemed to be totally random and rarely repeated. Rip was already dismissing possibilities. He’d once seen a group of terrorists use a little known cypher that was easily cracked if you knew how, but everyone had dismissed it as too obvious until Rip pointed out the clear markers. This was not that though, this was something more cunning.

“You’ve run all the usual analyses?” asked Rip.

There were many ways to brute force a code and GCHQ had become very adept at it. These days encryption was easy to achieve and difficult to crack, but that assumed you had the resources to do it properly. Governments could afford to ensure all communication was encrypted end to end, small terrorist organisations had more difficulties.

 “Ava’s team has, yes, and I had Ray go over it again. He owed me a favour,” said Gideon.

“Doctor Palmer is always happy to owe you a favour because it gives him an excuse to see the Waverider,” said Rip.

“He does love her, almost as much as you do I think,” said Gideon.

“I should hope so. He designed her,” said Rip, scrolling through the columns of numbers.

There were several distinct messages within the dataset that Gideon had given him. He wasn’t sure if that was an advantage of disadvantage at the moment. More data was usually better, but for all he knew they could use a new code for each message.

“Do we know anything about how this code was set up?” asked Rip. “Was there any communication in the clear prior to it being in place?”

“If there was then we have no record,” said Gideon.

Rip looked down the list and began a new frequency analysis. There was a program installed on the laptop that would tell him how often numbers occurred, and numerous other things about their positions. The highest number was 362. He suspected that was significant, but he couldn’t for the life of him think why. The higher numbers seemed to only appear at certain points in the sequences, but he wasn’t sure why that would be.

“There’s no way to crack this in isolation. If the computer couldn’t manage it then I won’t without more information,” said Rip, leaning back. “This isn’t about the numbers, it’s about the man. I need to know more about who he’s meeting and the kind of resources that they might have.”

He picked up the folder that Gideon had shown him at the teashop. The pictures were grainy, probably shot from a distance and gave him very little. The information was the bare minimum and probably all that Gideon could get her hands on without the direct clearance for this case.

“We don’t have much to go on,” said Gideon. “It’s the same pattern as before. He’s staying out of any direct meetings with whoever he’s buying from. He’s being very cautious.”

“This is why we couldn’t get him last time. We’ve tried putting agents into his operation and he’s never taken the bait. No one who has dealt with him will name him because they’ll probably end up dead if they do. I need those surveillance files,” said Rip. “If you want me to be of any use here then I have to have complete information. You have to ask Ava _for_ me, she’d never give them to _me_. Not after last time.”

Gideon rolled her eyes. “Yes, and with good reason. I thought we covered this earlier.”

“Gideon, please,” said Rip.

She gave him a look that suggested that she was very long suffering and was possibly regretting coming to see him at all. Then her expression changed.

“Gary does owe me a favour,” said Gideon, clearly thinking.

“Call it in,” said Rip. “This is worth it.”

“We’ve been close before, Captain,” said Gideon.

“I know, but I feel like there’s something simple that I’m missing here… I just need a few more pieces to help with the puzzle,” said Rip.

“It’s getting late. If you’re planning to cook dinner for your new friends then we should get started,” said Gideon.

“Indeed,” said Rip. “You’re sure that you want to help? You’re not much of a cook.”

“I think I can manage to chop vegetables,” said Gideon.

“Doubtful, given the number of ready meals that I know you eat,” said Rip, getting to his feet.

“I’m used to eating in the mess. It’s not like I have a lot of chance to cook,” said Gideon, closing the laptop. “Besides, we don’t all have someone as amazing as Mary Xavier to teach us how to feed ourselves.”

“Now, now, Gideon dear,” said Mary, breezing into the room with a book in one hand and her car keys in the other. “You could definitely learn if you put your mind to it. Although I have to admit that Rip did turn out to have rather a talent for it. Have you seen my handbag? I’m going to be late for my book club at this rate.”

“It’s on the coat rack,” said Rip, with barely a glance in Mary’s direction. “What are you reading at the moment?”

“Something called Three Body Problem,” said Mary, looking at the cover of the book she held as if seeing it for the first time. “It wasn’t my choice, a bit too cerebral for me, but by the time we’ve all had a couple of glasses of wine, no one seems to care about the book anyway.”

“Have fun,” said Rip, not believing for a moment that his mother didn’t understand the book. “Don’t stay out too late. I worry.”

“I know, I know, and you’re a fine one to talk,” said Mary, with an amused smile. “But you also know that I can take care of myself. Now, I must get going. Have a good time with your friends.”

With that Mary swept out of the room, to grab her coat, handbag and shoes before leaving the house.

“And there goes one of the foremost spymasters in the world,” sighed Rip, with a slight smile.

“Retired spymaster,” said Gideon, correcting him.

“So she would have me believe,” said Rip.

“She isn’t?” asked Gideon.

“She still makes regular phone calls to London, and her “book club” includes a former deputy head of MI6, a couple of retired naval intelligence officers and a one time member of the cabinet, all women I might add. I’m fairly sure that she knows more about what’s going on than I do at the moment,” said Rip.

“That isn’t terribly surprising given that you’re on medical leave and therefore not supposed to know anything,” replied Gideon.

Rip just gave Gideon a reproving look, and headed into the kitchen.

“You’re the one who brought me work,” said Rip, as he took out the vegetables and placed them on the board ready for Gideon to begin the chopping.

“And I am already regretting it. Unfortunately, you are still the acknowledged expert on Vandal Savage, so I really had no choice,” said Gideon.

“If you’d just let me come back to London and actually do my job then this wouldn’t be necessary,” replied Rip, taking out the other ingredients from the fridge.

“When you can pass the medical, you can come back to work and not a moment before,” said Gideon, washing the vegetables in the sink. “What are we eating?”

“Thai stir fry. It was the best I could do at short notice,” said Rip.

“I’m sure it will be delicious,” said Gideon. “You didn’t tell me that you’d been making friends down here. He’s quite good looking, your coffee shop owner.”

“Tea shop, and not mine. I hadn’t noticed,” replied Rip.

“That is a complete lie. You like him!” said Gideon.

Rip gave his friend a disbelieving looking. “Yes, as a friend.”

“No, more than that. You _like him_ like him!” said Gideon, teasingly. “It’s fine. I’ve always known that you liked men too. I mean the way you and Jonah used to flirt…”

“We did not flirt!” said Rip, with horror.

Jonah was the closest thing he had to an opposite number in the US. He and Special Agent Hex had got into their fair share of scrapes before Rip had taken command of the Waverider and maybe there had been a little flirting, but it had never gone anywhere. The last time that they’d met it had been purely professional, and they’d both been with other people by then anyway.

“Oh come off it,” said Gideon, grinning dangerously. “I was there. You two couldn’t stop. I was glad when we brought in the target and I could leave.”

Rip hoped that he wasn’t blushing. He turned away to get out the wok in preparation for cooking, placing it on the kitchen range.

“Yes, well, that was some time ago. Right now, I’m more focussed on bringing down Vandal Savage. I can’t get distracted. I owe it to… I owe it to Miranda and Jonas to catch him. He can’t be allowed to do what he did to us to anyone else.”

Gideon paused, but then let out a long breath.

“I’d rather you were distracted. You need to have something else in your life other than revenge on Vandal Savage.”

“This isn’t revenge, it’s justice,” he said, sharply.

They had had this conversation before, and he maintained that he wasn’t just hunting Savage to make the man suffer what Rip had. That was revenge. He didn’t just want Savage to suffer, although if he did then Rip doubted that he would care, but he intended for him to answer for all of his crimes. That was the endgame.

He sighed, and reached into the cupboard for a dish. The meat would need to marinate for a little while before he cooked it, but there wasn’t any point starting the actual cooking until his guests arrived. He concentrated on chopping and mixing for a little while.

“It’s only been just over a year since I got out of hospital,” said Rip. “I would like to be able to put it all behind me and move on, but I can’t. Putting Savage behind bars is the only way I know of to get closure, so that’s what I’m trying to do. Which is hard when everyone seems to think that they know what’s best for me.”

Gideon glanced up from her chopping.

“I don’t think that can be a shock given the state I found you in,” said Gideon. “I will admit that you are doing much better now, but you’re just going to have to put up with our concern for a while longer.”

“Yes, Mother is just as bad,” said Rip. “God forbid I should forget to perform my daily exercises or so much as skip a single meal. I think she’s channelling all her worry into making sure I stick to my doctor’s advice, which I would mind less if I was actually getting any better.”

“You _are_ getting better,” said Gideon.

“I suppose I have improved a little,” Rip grudgingly admitted, whilst adding ingredients to the marinade. “But I haven’t improved enough to pass a medical.”

“You just need more time,” said Gideon. “You’ve always been something of a workaholic. The downtime is good for you.”

Rip put the meat into the marinade and watched Gideon chopping for a moment. She was good with a knife, a skill that she didn’t usually employ in the kitchen.

“And I suppose a little light data analysis is fine if it helps you?” asked Rip.

“That’s not fair. If Ava had got her way then I wouldn’t even have been allowed to bring you this,” said Gideon. “But you would have killed me if I’d kept it from you and I know you’ve been a little bored.”

“That is a huge understatement,” said Rip. “If it wasn’t for the teashop…”

He trailed off. The teashop had become a rather important part of his life these few weeks. He shrugged and finished off readying the ingredients for the stir fry.

The doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it,” said Gideon, already half out of the room. “You have your hands full with dinner.”

He could hear the Liverpool accent cutting through the quiet of the cottage as soon as Gideon opened the door. John’s voice was quite distinctive, as was John himself with his blond hair and striking features. He regarded him as quite good looking, and he remembered the moment he’d dragged John inside from the rain with his shirt clinging to his skin.

He looked down to find that the wok was on the stove and he had the oil in his hand but no memory of picking it up. Apparently his imagination could be quite distracting at times. He persuaded his thoughts to turn to the matter at hand: cooking dinner. He turned on the range, just as John entered the kitchen.

“Hello there,” said John, looking delightfully dishevelled and slightly guilty. “I fucked up and apparently I no longer own a functional monopoly set, but I brought you the good red wine to compensate.”

A bottle of wine was put down on the side. Rip barely noticed it. He smiled at John, taking in the white shirt that fitted nicely across the man’s chest and thin black tie, at perpetual half-mast. It made him slightly self-conscious of his own grey t-shirt and navy jeans. He hadn’t really seen this as a formal affair, but perhaps he should have put on a shirt for his guests.

“I think we have a few other forms of entertainment in the house,” said Rip. “I’ll just have to teach you those monopoly tactics another time.”

John grinned now, in a way that lit up his entire face.

“I shall look forwards to that then,” said John, looking around the kitchen. “I left Zed examining a painting in the hall with Gideon, she’ll be with us in a bit. Nice place you’ve got here.”

“Not mine, my mother is the owner,” said Rip. “She’s the one who found this place. It was rather ramshackle when she bought it, but it’s quite cosy now that she’s completed the renovations. My only complaint is the low ceilings.”

“Yeah, they didn’t build these places for men of our height,” said John, with a tap on the beams above his head. He was almost exactly the same height as Rip. “So, you cook as well as playing a mean game of Go Fish and delivering babies. Is there anything you can’t do?”

“I’m sure there are many, many things that I have yet to master. However, my mother was very keen I should learn to feed myself. Although I prefer baking to be honest,” said Rip.

“That explains why you’re a cake connoisseur. Do you need a hand with anything?”

“No, Gideon’s done all the required prep work. How are you doing?” asked Rip. “You seemed preoccupied earlier.”

John frowned a little, and Rip immediately missed the previous smile. Then his visitor gave a half shrug as he stole a piece of carrot from the pile of chopped vegetables, and bit down on it.

“My old partner from Liverpool is still trying to get hold of me,” said John. “And he’s pretty much the last person that I want to talk to. It’s not that he’s a bad bloke or anything, it’s just… memories, you know?”

Rip did know. There were some people that he still dreaded talking to because of the associations that they had formed in his mind. He nodded, as he added the oil to the wok and began to fry off the onions and garlic.

“I’ve got a problem that I can’t walk away from and I’m going to have to talk to him at some point. I suppose I’m just waiting until I’ve got no option,” said John. “Which is a bloody stupid thing to do, but I’ve never claimed to be smart.”

“I’d be willing to listen if you want to run things by someone,” said Rip. “I realise that we don’t know each other terribly well yet, but I do have some experience in bringing criminals to justice.”

John let out a chuckle.

“I don’t do that anymore and I’m not sure your kind of criminals are in the same league as the ones I used to collar,” said John, and then there was a small pause before he added. “And I’d like to get to know you better.”

Their eyes met, and for a few seconds Rip wondered if John was about to lean in and kiss him, but then the oil sizzled loudly in the wok and the spell was broken. Rip turned back to his cooking, using a spatula to move everything around in the pan, before adding the marinated meat.

“Sorry. The glasses for the wine are in the cupboard up there,” he said, with an incline of his head, and a swift effort at moving on from the moment.

He wished that he could be carefree enough to reciprocate that look in John’s eyes, but he felt constantly as if the weight of his grief rested on his shoulders. He stopped stirring for a second, and watched John stretching to get the glasses from the cupboard. The white shirt clung to his back and shoulders as he reached, and showed off his upper body rather nicely. He sighed internally at his own inability to keep his thoughts off the other man’s physique, and did his best to drag himself back to the task at hand.

“I could definitely use a friend,” he finally said. “Tell me about your issue with your former partner.”

John uncapped the wine. Rip noted it was a screw top which did not bode well for the quality of the wine inside, but he supposed that it was unlikely that John knew much about wine. The blond man poured two glasses and handed one to Rip.

“I told you that my partner wanted to talk to me,” said John, and Rip nodded for him to continue. “It was to let me know that the CCRC want to review the Black Magic Killer case.”

John sipped his wine, and went quiet.

“The CCRC?”

“Criminal Case Review Commission. Logue exhausted all of his possible avenues of appeal, but this would be the one way that he might be able to get the conviction overturned. It would be about technicalities. If we didn’t follow proper procedure or something like that,” said John.

“But I assume you did follow the proper procedures?” asked Rip.

“Yeah, of course,” said John, automatically, perhaps a little too reflexively as if he’d been asked that question a lot. “It’s just… It was personal. Logue tried to kill me, to make me one of his victims, and perhaps they shouldn’t have left me on the case after that. It was a judgement call, and I’d have done my nut if they’d taken me off, but looking back…”

“He tried to kill you?” asked Rip.

“Twice actually, but the first attempt was early on, when Logue thought it would be a nice cherry on top of his other murders to off the copper who was chasing him. I think he had this idea that it would make the spell stronger or something daft like that. He tried to drug me. Which was his MO, but I was a bit bigger than his normal targets so I woke up in the boot of his car, lying next to his murder equipment. Needless to say, I got out of there as soon as I could. He wasn’t expecting a victim who was awake. He wore a mask the whole time though, so he wasn’t totally stupid.”

John related the entire story as if it was an everyday occurrence to be drugged and thrown in the back of car.

“I was fine, but by the letter of the law, I should have taken time off and been removed from the case. I persuaded my superiors to let me stay on,” said John.

“You think they were wrong?” asked Rip.

“No, it was _my_ case, no one knew it like I did, but I think it’s something that someone could use to make it seem like the investigation was biased,” said John. “Although trying to save a girl while also trying not to be murdered isn’t exactly easy. Maybe I did cut some corners whilst I was bleeding out on the floor...”

“Bleeding out on the floor? My reading about the case didn’t include the fact that you were injured,” said Rip, trying to keep alarm out of his voice.

John took a much larger gulp of his wine, and then coughed. Rip sipped from his own glass and discovered the reason for the cough. This was definitely from the lower end of the supermarket reds, but Rip didn’t get the idea that John drank for enjoyment much.

“This was when I’d cracked the case and worked out that it was Logue,” said John, bitterly, staring into the depths of his glass. “I found out where he was. He’d gone back to the old family home and taken Astra with him. I went over there to check it out before I called it in. I didn’t want to waste time if I was wrong. I phoned for back-up as soon as I knew I was right, it just took a while to get there.” John took another drink. “I found Astra and was busy trying to save her when the bastard crept up on me and stabbed me. He caught me in the side, wasn’t too bad but it bled like a bastard. My team turned up ten minutes too late to stop Logue from chopping up his daughter, but just in time to call me an ambulance.”

John couldn’t suppress a shudder or the way the colour leached from his face. He leaned against the countertop and took a deep breath, ignoring Rip’s attempts to make eye contact. He took that to mean that John preferred to regather his equilibrium without help. If he needed a few seconds to compose himself then Rip was happy to give them to him, but he also wanted to understand the situation so that he could help his friend.

“That’s not exactly what the papers said about Logue’s arrest,” said Rip, taking another sip of the wine with trepidation.

He could hear Zed and Gideon laughing about something in the other room, and he was wondering if leaving those two together for an extended period of time was such a good idea. It was also a strange contrast to the sombre tone of his own conversation.

John shrugged in response to his question.

“The papers weren’t told the whole story, and they did report an officer was injured during the arrest, just not that it was the lead detective. It doesn’t look great when the head of your task force gets stabbed. Or that his back-up took twenty minutes to arrive. Of course, protocol says that I should have waited before even setting foot in that house, but I thought I had a shot at saving the kid…”

John took another gulp of the wine, emptied the glass and poured himself another.

“So you went in alone,” finished Rip.

“Yeah, you’re going to tell me it was a stupid move and you’d be right,” said John, tapping nervously on the kitchen surface.

“Hardly. I’d probably have done the same,” said Rip.

John’s eyes shot to Rip’s face, as if searching to see whether that was the truth. He straightened up a little and nodded.

“I can believe that,” said John. “You’re that kind of bloke, does things for the right reasons. I’m not sure I can say that.”

“You helped me to deliver a baby in the back room of your teashop. I think you’re exactly the kind of person to do things for the right reasons. You’re very hard on yourself,” Rip said, turning his attention back to the cooking so that he didn’t burn their dinner.

“And you aren’t?” said John, with accusation in his tone.

“Do as I say, not as I do,” replied Rip, going for amusement rather than confrontation. “But you have a point. I’m not always good at acknowledging that I am only human.”

“You’re quite good at cooking though,” said John, clearly deciding that things had got far too serious, “that smells good.” He moved a little closer, so that their shoulders almost touched and made a show of taking in the aromas of the cooking.

Rip stood his ground, which took some willpower given his natural instinct to maintain his distance, but he knew John hadn’t just got closer to smell the food. It was actually quite pleasant to have someone interested enough that he was flirting, and Rip found that he didn’t want to discourage it right away. He took another sip of the wine. The taste was improving the more of it he drank.

“It’s just a stir fry,” said Rip, with a smile. “I hope you like spicy food.”

“I love it,” replied John.

They sipped their wine in silence for a moment as Rip continued cooking and John watched.

“What are you going to do about the CCRC?” asked Rip, bringing the conversation back to the point, a little reluctantly.

“I don’t know. I’m not going to be much use to them if I can’t even think about it without having a panic attack. But I guess I’ll do what needs to be done,” said John, shaking his head despondently. “If I don’t help out then that just strengthens whatever Logue has got going for him. I just thought I’d left it all in Liverpool. The point of coming here was to get a fresh start.”

“Maybe you should talk to your former partner and see what they actually need from you. Perhaps a written statement is all that’s required,” said Rip.

“Doubtful, mate,” replied John. “But I admire your optimism. You’re probably right about talking to Corrigan though. It might stop him hounding me if nothing else. He was threatening to come down here.”

“A discussion face to face could be better,” said Rip. “It might clear the air and ensure you get everything across you need to in one go.”

“Maybe,” said John, without any kind of enthusiasm, and then he changed the subject with a finality that was very clear. “I hope the wine goes with your stir fry. There wasn’t much choice at the corner shop.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine. Thank you for bringing it. Mother has a policy of not keeping alcohol in the house at the moment,” said Rip, and regretted the statement as soon as he’d said it.

“Does she?” was all John had to say on the matter, although maybe there was a knowing look in there. It didn’t even sound as if he was that surprised. “Oh well, we’ll manage, I’m sure. We got drunk enough the other night. We should probably lay off tonight.”

“Yes, that is true. I did have quite the hangover after that evening,” said Rip.

Gideon and Zed entered the kitchen, talking about some piece of artwork that Rip couldn’t guess at from the description.

“Your mother has good taste in art,” said Zed. “She has some original watercolours by Forster. Maybe I should invite her to the art class in the library. Do you think she’d be interested?”

“Quite possibly,” said Rip. “Although she is rather busy, despite being retired. Gideon, would you mind helping me get the food to the table.”

“Of course,” said Gideon. “Do you need your stick? I can get it for you.”

“I can move the five feet I need to get to the table and sit down without help,” said Rip.

“I noticed you had your cane earlier. Is your leg causing you trouble?” asked Zed, with a little concern.

“I’ve been overdoing it slightly,” said Rip.

“Again,” added Gideon, as she waited for Rip put the food into a serving dish.

“Yes, thank you, Gideon,” said Rip, as Gideon picked up the dish and moved it to the table. “I can explain for myself. She’s rather annoyed with me. Her and my mother have formed a pact and ganged up on me to make sure I don’t do a moment more of exercise than I’m supposed to do.”

“That actually sounds reasonable if you’re being an ass,” said Zed. “Hey, Gideon, if you need another ally then I’ll gladly help out.”

“I need all the help I can get with the Captain,” said Gideon, sounding a little frustrated.

Rip turned off the stove, picked up the condiments and turned to usher the others to the table. John grabbed the wine and glasses, somehow managing to carry the two empty glasses, bottle and both Rip’s and his own full glasses.

“After you,” said John.

The four of them moved to the dining table, with Rip managing to mostly hide his limp. The cottage had a large table in the kitchen, with a very rustic feel to it. The oak chairs were polished by use and beeswax, imparting a lived-in warmth to the furniture.

“I heard that Monopoly was cancelled,” said Gideon, as they all sat down at the oak dining table. “Maybe we should play cards instead.”

“No!” said Rip, John and Zed together as one.

Gideon raised her eyebrows.

“It sounds like there’s a story to tell there,” said Gideon. “Do continue.”

John chuckled and began the story of how Rip counted cards and John cheated and everyone had drunk too much. That was the first of many stories and the meal passed very pleasantly, with the wine drunk at a sedate pace, and the food eaten at a lesser one.

They cleared away the dishes and Zed and Gideon declared that the washing up was their job since Rip had cooked and John was needed to keep him company. Rip saw the look that the two exchanged as they ushered him out of the kitchen, and was sure something was going on between them but he had no idea what. They were getting on rather well, and he didn’t think that was going to bode well for his or John’s future.

John also looked rather bemused, but the two men sat down on Mary’s red chesterfield sofa. John pulled a hip flask out of his pocket, unscrewed the top.

“Fancy a nip? I’ve got enough for a couple of tots,” he said.

Rip smiled, and made to move to get up and get the glasses from the cabinet where the spirits lived. Or they would normally live. His mother had cleared out the lot, much to his disappointment. John put a hand on Rip’s arm.

“I’ll get them. You’re still limping,” said John, and was up and collecting the glasses before Rip could say anything.

The glasses were placed on the coffee table, and the amber liquid was poured into two equal measures. Rip rapidly moved the files off the table, tucking them away rather clumsily and dropping some of the contents on the floor.

“Is that what you and Gideon were looking at in the teashop today?” asked John, indicating the files.

Rip nodded.

“Gideon brought me some files to look at. Mother is being rather strict about not allowing me to work at the moment, so we needed somewhere to look over a few things,” said Rip. “I shouldn’t have left them out.”

“Top secret is it?” asked John.

“Yes, well, maybe not _top_ secret. It’s the latest on Vandal Savage,” said Rip, bitterly, and took a sip of the liquid in his glass. It evaporated pleasantly as it stung his lips. John had good taste in whisky.

“Vandal Savage?” asked John. “Isn’t he the guy who tried to kill you?”

“Yes,” said Rip, hurrying to put away the last photo, which just happened to be the one of Vandal Savage arriving at the airport.

John plucked it from his finger and examined it. Rip probably should have moved to take it back, but he didn’t, somewhat glad of John’s interest.

“Which one is he?”

“The one with the beard.”

“He looks a right bastard,” said John.

Rip nodded. John handed the picture back to him and their fingers brushed. Instead of ignoring it, John did it again and then took hold of his hand.

“It’s not easy, living through something like that,” said John, his voice low and his eyes fixed on Rip’s face. “It kind of makes you decide to seize the day. At least it did for me, anyway.”

He leaned in and before Rip knew it, John had kissed him on the lips. Rip had let him too, without a single thought to the contrary. The kiss was short, but definitely not a mistake. It had been utterly intentional and John was looking at him with a questioning, somewhat concerned look now.

“Sorry,” said John, with a shake of his head. “I told Zed you were straight…”

The other man looked away, and Rip understood that John thought he was being rejected because Rip hadn’t kissed him back. He knew he couldn’t let this opportunity go. He dropped the picture on the coffee table, and then he took hold of John’s collar, pulling him close with a gentle tug.

“I’m not straight,” he said.

“Oh thank god,” murmured John.

Rip planted his lips upon John’s and the other man allowed his tongue entrance so that the kiss quickly deepened into something that suggested both of them had been wanting this for quite some time. John’s tongue was agile, playing with Rip’s own, and he tasted of whisky and dark chocolate, with a hint of cigarettes. Rip considered this to be a very acceptable combination and he felt like it was impossible for the kiss to be more perfect in this moment. It was a release of tension that he hadn’t realised was required, but now that he was experiencing it, he knew this was what he had been winding himself up over. It was only the sound of laughing in the other room that made them break off.

“Shit,” said John, quietly, breathlessly, flushed and warm. “I pick my moments, don’t I? I don’t know about you but I’m not keen on Zed and Gideon finding us snogging on the sofa.”

“Agreed. Gideon knows far too much about my private life already. Perhaps we should plan to resume this somewhere more private tomorrow night?” suggested Rip, with a pointed look.

John gave him a slow smile, his head on one side, and lips appropriately swollen from the kiss.

“You do want to resume this then?” asked John, somewhat tentatively.

Rip took a second to think, but the affirmative nod was unequivocal.

“I’ve never actually kissed a man before,” said Rip, “but I would very much like to do it again.”

John chuckled, his fingers lingering on Rip’s bearded chin.

“I’d like to kiss this particular man again, and I promise, I have enough experience for both of us, although it’s been a while,” and there was a pause before he added. “I’m bisexual.”

“Likewise,” said Rip, which perhaps John had already assumed but it seemed to be the right thing to say. “I’ve spent the last few days trying to work out if you were flirting or just being friendly.”

“A little of both,” said John, his fingers moving lower to run a hand down Rip’s arm with a kind of soft affection that had the former naval officer wondering if he _could_ actually wait until tomorrow to kiss John more.

“I may not be the greatest at reading body language,” said Rip. “And it has been a while since I’ve dated anyone of either sex.”

“We don’t have to rush anything. Especially if you’re new to this,” John said, a little quickly. “But we could maybe squeeze in one last kiss though?”

“I’m a grown man, I know what I’m doing,” said Rip, “despite what my mother and Gideon may think. However, things are definitely on hold for tonight.”

His self-discipline warred with the attraction he felt, but he was enjoying the warm feeling in his chest. John sat back on the sofa with a disappointed huff but also shuffled slightly closer until their shoulders were touching. It reminded Rip of the moment in John’s flat, when his friend had been soaked to the skin and embarrassed that Rip had found out about his past. Rip had been rather ashamed himself that he’d invaded John’s privacy like that, but he had to think about his and Mary’s safety first. At least that was how he had been rationalising it to himself and definitely not as stalking.

John still looked rather disappointed.

“Okay, you’re right, they’re bound to come back in at the wrong moment,” John said, with a glance towards the kitchen door.

To prove his point, there was the sound of more laughter from the kitchen, and Rip let out a long sigh.

“Our timing could definitely have been better,” said Rip.

“Story of my life,” John said tiredly, and idly picked up the picture of Savage again.

“I will need that back,” said Rip, reaching for the file it had fallen out of but John was frowning as he looked at the image.

The blond hunched forwards as if he’d spotted something.

“You got a magnifying glass?”

“Somewhere,” said Rip, looking under the other papers on the table before he finally unearthed the required item.

John took the magnifier and positioned it over the photograph, specifically looking at what Vandal Savage was carrying.

“He’s reading your book,” said John, after a moment’s perusal. “At least I think that’s what it is. You’ve had it every day when you’ve come into the teashop, so it’s pretty familiar. Kind of a coincidence.”

Rip’s forehead furrowed in perplexed interest as John handed him the magnifying glass and photo. He took them and looked at where John was pointing, already half convinced that his friend was seeing connections where there were none.

“It can’t be…” he said, but as he looked through the glass he had to admit that John was right. Then suddenly his synapses fired and his stomach flipped as an idea found its way into his mind. “It can’t be that simple…”

“What can’t?” asked John.

“The code,” said Rip. “I need my copy…”

He jumped to his feet, almost overbalancing, but John was there beside him, steadying him. He rapidly retrieved his copy of The Punic Wars from the hall table where he’d left it the previous day when he hadn’t been able to walk into town as usual. He flicked to the back. There were 362 pages, the highest number in the code was 362.

“What is it?” asked John.

“Have you heard of a Book Code?” asked Rip, barely looking up from the pages.

John frowned. “Are you talking about spy stuff? A code that uses a book as the key, right?”

“Exactly,” said Rip. “The first number is the page, the second number is the line and the third number is the word. It’s as old as…well, as old as the mass production of the printed word. My colleagues intercepted several strings of numbers which were sent between Savage and his contacts. It’s possible that he’s using the book as the key.”

Rip was already moving back to the sofa, getting out his laptop and pulling up the file to open. He felt a sense of giddy anticipation, which was an emotion that he hadn’t felt in months. He handed the book to John, who had sat back down beside him.

“I’ll read you the numbers,” said Rip. “You find me the word.”

John looked somewhat puzzled, but he nodded. He took a sip from his glass of whisky and opened the book to the middle, clearly ready for business.

“Okay, go ahead.”

They worked through the first message easily enough, and it was clear from the fourth word that Rip’s hunch had been correct. Savage was using the book as his code key.

_Delivery has been delayed. Incoming weapon will arrive in one week. Meet the messenger at the port._

“Well, that’s clear enough,” said John. “It’s a shame it doesn’t say which port.”

“I suspect that certain things were predetermined,” said Rip. “It was probably arranged in person. I can do the rest later now that I know I’m on the right track.”

“Rip, where did you get the book?” asked John, his voice wearing its concern outwardly.

“My wife,” said Rip. “Miranda gave me the book. Military history is an interest of mine. Why do you ask?”

“Why would Savage be using the same book you have as his code? And it’s not just the same book. It’s the same edition, and I’m guessing it wasn’t that popular a choice.” John examined the volume, turning it over in his hands, and looking at the inscription in the front.

“I don’t know,” said Rip, closing the laptop thoughtfully. He didn’t like where his thoughts were taking him now, because none of those thoughts made any sense. “I don’t know! How am I supposed to know what she was thinking when she bought me a present the month before she died?”

He was up and pacing, despite his limp being present and annoying. He needed to move.

“What did your wife do? Was she in the same line of work as you?” asked John, still examining the book.

Rip gave him a sharp look, but shook his head.

“No, she worked with refugees. Jonas was born in the Calais refugee camp…” said Rip, gesturing in the rough direction of where France might be.

“Okay, so not a spy,” said John.

“ _I’m_ not a spy, John,” said Rip, with some exasperation.

“Really? Because all these secret codes are pretty typical spy stuff if you ask me,” said John. “Look, it’s got to mean something. Maybe Savage found out your wife bought you the book and wanted to taunt you with it?”

“But why?” asked Rip. “Why go to all that trouble? Especially when he clearly intended on killing me.”

“No idea, mate,” said John. “I guess we’ll just have to investigate.”

“You’re talking about investigating my wife,” said Rip, emotion getting the better of him. “My _dead_ wife, John!”

John put the book down on the table, took another sip from his glass and got to his feet, approaching Rip. He got in front of where the pacing would have continued, effectively stopping him in his tracks. Rip glared at his friend, but John reached out a hand and ran it down Rip’s arm.

“We’re not investigating your wife,” said John. “We’re investigating Vandal Savage.”

“ _We_ shouldn’t be investigating anything,” said Rip. “You’re not even supposed to have seen that picture. Gideon will have my head. And I’m on medical leave.”

“I guess we’ll just have to be discreet then, won’t we,” said John, and he leaned in, taking advantage of their proximity, and kissed Rip.

John was almost exactly the same height as Rip. Neither of them had to stretch even a little to make their lips meet and somehow, they just fitted together perfectly. Rip tried not to think about what he was doing too hard, but he couldn’t anymore. Miranda was in his mind and this… this suddenly felt like cheating on her memory. He took an awkward step back and the kiss was broken.

“John… I can’t… I’m sorry. I thought I could, but it’s… it’s too soon,” said Rip, with a half shake of his head.

He knew this was unfair after he’d just said that he was interested, but his emotions were knotted, tangling themselves like a nest of snakes in his gut. His eyes scanned John’s face and caught the hurt disappointment that sped across his features before they were carefully schooled back into their former neutral expression. John cocked his head, the beginning of a one of his fake smiles starting on his lips but not making it to his eyes.

“It’s okay, mate. I don’t take it personally,” said John. He picked up his glass from the table and downed the contents in one. “I think Zed and I should be getting back. Leave you good people be for the night. Thanks for the food and conversation. It was a good night.” It was all spoken rapidly and he didn’t wait to see what Rip said, but moved to the kitchen doorway and shouted for Zed. “Oi, it’s time we were going.”

Rip hardly had time to reply before John was picking up his coat and bundling Zed out the door with a wave. He closed the door and turned around to see Gideon giving him a very unimpressed look.

“What did you do?” she asked.

“Why would I have done anything?” asked Rip. “We had a pleasant conversation and then John decided that it was time to go home.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” said Gideon, and went back into the kitchen.

“I didn’t lie,” said Rip, to the empty room. He had missed out a few details though.

He hung his head for a moment and then his leg reminded him that it was still rather annoyed with him. With a sigh, he hobbled back to the sofa. He needed a distraction and work had always proved to be a very good distraction in the past. He pulled up the code file again. There had to be something in here that he could use to track Savage.

He picked up his copy of the book and began the laborious process of working out what all the various messages actually said. This would definitely keep him occupied for a while.


End file.
